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THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 


CRITICAL  ESSAYS 
THE  EARLY  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 


THE  MODERN 
STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

EACH  VOLUME  EDITED  BY  A  LEADING 
AMERICAN  AUTHORITY 

WILL  D.  HOWE,  General  Editor 

This  series  is  composed  of  such  works  as 
are  conspicuous  in  the  province  of  literature 
for  their  enduring  influence.  Every  volume 
is  recognized  as  essential  to  a  liberal  edu- 
cation'and  will  tend  to  infuse  a  love  for  true 
literature  and  an  appreciation  of  the  quali- 
ties which  cause  it  to  endure. 

A  descriptive  list  of  the  volumes  published  in 

this  series  appears  in  the  last  pages 

of  this  volume 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 


CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

OF  THE  EARLY  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 


WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 
BY 

RAYMOND  MACDONALD  ALDEN 

PROFESSOB  OF    ENQLI8H,   STANFORD  DNIVERSITT 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  BOSTON 


Copyright,  1921,  By 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

A 


THE  8CRIBNER  PRESS 


College 
Library 

76 


PREFACE 

The  texts  of  the  essays  in  this  collection  are  from  au- 
thoritative sources,  and  the  occasional  omitted  passages 
have  been  scrupulously  indicated.  Spelling  and  punctua- 
tion, however,  have  been  normalized  to  modem  usage,  and 
quotations  corrected  without  special  remark. 

The  editor  wishes  to  acknowledge  his  indebtedness  to 
the  apparatus  in  Professor  Albert  S.  Cook^  editions  of 
Shelley's,  Newman's,  and  Leigh  Hunt's  essays  on  poetry. 

R.  M.  A. 

Stanford  University,  California. 
January,  1921. 


CONTENTS 

WORDSWORTH 

PAGE 

■Preface  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads  (1800) 1 

Letter  to  John  Wilson  (1802) 26 

Preface  to  Poems  of  1815  (1815) 30 

COPLESTON 
Advice  to  a  Yottng  Reviewer  (1807) 46 

JEFFREY 

Scott's  "Lady  OF  THE  Lake"  (1810) '.       54 

Wordsworth's  "Excursion"  (1814) 67 

SCOTT 

Miss  Austen's  Novels  (1815) 79 

Dialogue  with  Captain  Clutterbuck  (1822)       ...      89 

COLERIDGE 
Imagination  and  Fancy  (1817)    .........     100 

The  "Lyrical  Ballads"  and  the  Definition  of  Poetry 

(1817) 104 

~>  Wordsworth's  Theory  of  Poetic  Diction  (1817)     .     .     112 
Shakespeare  (Shakespeare's  Judgment  Equal  to  his 
Genius;  The  Characteristics    of    Shakespeare's 
Dramas;  Hamlet;  Macbeth)  (1818) 133 

CROKER 
Keats's  "Endymion"  (1818) 160 

LOCKHART    (?) 

The  Cockney  School  of  Poetry:  Keats  (1818)    .     .     .     165 


CONTENTS 
LAMB 

--On  THE  Tragedies  OF  Shakespeare  (1812)       ....  172 

Iago  and  Malvolio  (1822) 189 

On  the  Artificial.  Comedy  of  the  Last  Century  (1822)  193 

The  Sanity  of  True  Genius  (1826) 197 

HAZLITT 

Characters    of    Shakespeare     (Hamlet;    Macbeth; 

Falstaff)  (1817) 201 

On  Poetry  in  General  (1818) 221 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  Racine,  and  Shakespeare  (1826)      ,  240 

BYRON 

Letter  to  John  Murray,  Esq.,  on  Bowles's  Strictures 

on  Pope  (1821) 251 

SHELLEY 

*^  Defense  of  Poetry  (1821;  1840) 273 

NEWMAN 
Poetry,  with  Reference  to  Aristotle's  Poetics  (1829)    310 

DE  QUINCEY 
On  the  Knocking  at  the  Gate  in  "  Macbeth  "  (1823)     .     323 

Wordsworth's  Poetry  (1845) 328 

Literature  of  Knowledge  and  Literature  of  Power 

(1848) 339 

MACAULAY 

The  Doctrine  of  "Correctness"  (1831)       ....  346 

The  Comedy  of  the  Restoration  (1841) 356 

Caricature  and  Realism  (1843) 362 

WILSON 
Spenser  and  his  Critics  (1834) 368 

HUNT 
~  What  is  Poetry?     (1844) 377 


INTRODUCTION 

A.  new  era  of  criticism,  corresponding  closely  with  a 
new  era  of  poetry,  is  recognized  as  having  arisen  in  Eng- 
land at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  being  des- 
tined to  dominate  the  greater  part  of  the  century  fol- 
lowing. In  general  this  is  pretty  definitely  connected 
with  what  is  called  the  Romantic  Movement,  though  that 
phrase  has  long  been  used  so  vaguely  and  variously  as  to 
be  a  dangerous  one  for  the  practical  purposes  of  a  stu- 
dent. Whatever  there  was  in  common — despite  their 
many  differences — in  the  poetic  theories  and  practise  of 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Keats,  and  Shelley,  may  no  doubt 
safely  be  called  "romantic";  and  this  common  attitude 
will  be  found  to  be  reflected  (or,  occasionally,  opposed) 
in  the  criticism  of  their  period. 

Another  outstanding  fact  about  the  criticism  of  this 
period  is  its  connection  with  the  development  of  period- 
ical literature — that  is,  with  certain  new  types  of  literary 
journalism.  Two  types,  to  speak  more  accurately,  rose 
to  prominence  in  the  same  generation:  one  that  of  the 
great  reviews,  the  other  that  of  the  magazine;  and  each 
of  them  gave  opportunity  for  the  development  of  criticism 
in  characteristic  ways.  Even  when,  as  in  the  case  of 
the  chapters  in  Coleridge's  miscellaneous  Biographia  Lit- 
eraria,  a  critic's  material  first  appeared  in  book  form,  its 
substance  or  tone  was  often  determined  by  the  journalistic 
criticism  of  the  time. 

Since  the  essays  in  the  present  collection  deal  with 
countless  subjects,  suggested  by  both  classic  and  contem- 
porary writings,  it  would  be  absurd  to  seek  for  unity  of 
theme,  much  less  of  opinion,  in  the  whole  group.  Yet 
certain  topics  recur  repeatedly,  in  significant  fashion,  or, 
if  not  consciously  expressed  by  the  writers,  are  seen  at 
this  distance  to  be  implicit  in  their  discussions  and  to 
represent  significant  elements  in  the  literary  thinking  of 
the    period.      Of   primary    importance    is    the    question 


z  INTRODUCTION 

of  the  nature  of  poetry,  which  the  age  of  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge  rightly  felt  itself  to  be  taking  up  and  an- 
swering in  certain  important  and  at  least  partially  new 
ways.  Another  is  the  subject  of  Shakespeare,  and  the 
proper  means  of  estimating  the  value  of  his  works.  A 
third  might  be  viewed  as  equivalent  to  the  question  of 
"romanticism"  itself, — namely,  the  right  to  escape  from 
the  formal  restrictions  and  prescriptions  of  an  earlier  era, 
and  the  development  of  a  new  and  liberal  doctrine  of  the 
legitimate  or  "correct"  in  literary  art. 

In  accordance  with  this  brief  survey  of  the  chief  sig- 
nificant elements  in  the  criticism  of  the  period,  the  re- 
mainder of  this  introduction  will  briefly  consider  the 
three  topics  just  noted,  and  in  conclusion  the  character 
of  the  new  journalism  in  which  they  were  so  largely  em- 
bodied. 

1. — THE   NATURE    OF    POETRY 

The  most  important  aspects  of  the  new  doctrine  of 
poetry  may  be  best  understood  by  comparing  it  with  that 
of  the  preceding  age.  In  general,  the  idea  of  poetry  held 
by  criticism  in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries 
may  be  summed  up  by  saying  that  poetry  was  then  viewed 
as  either  embellished  imitation  or  embellished  fiction.  The 
facts  of  experience  were  taken  by  poets,  and  made  more 
beautiful  or  more  nearly  perfect  than  reality;  or,  imag- 
ined experience  was  created  along  the  same  line  of  the 
betterment  of  nature.  If  anything  further  was  accom- 
plished, it  was  by  way  of  commenting  upon  the  poet's 
materials  according  to  the  generalized  moral  sentiments 
of  the  race, — reproducing,  in  Pope's  words,  "what  oft  was 
thought  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed."  In  contrast,  the  age 
of  Wordsworth  viewed  poetry  primarily  as  a  means  of 
eom>m,unicating  emotion  by  representing  not  so  much  the 
objective  facts  as  the  subjective  reaction  to  them,  and 
secondarily,  as  a  means  of  interpreting  experiences  newly 
through  some  penetrative  power  of  the  poet  which  per- 
ceived their  significance  more  deeply  than  was  done  by 
ordinary  men. 

The  principal  instance  of  the  working  out  of  this  idea 
is  found  in  the  new  doctrine  of  the  Imagination,  as  set 
forth  first  by  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  later  and  more 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

derivatively  by  Shelley  and  Leigh  Hunt.  In  the  former 
period  the  imagination  had  been  viewed  merely  as  a  fac- 
ulty which  called  up  Oike  the  memory)  images  of  things 
seen  in  times  past,  or,  by  a  creative  extension  of  the 
process,  figured  forth  "the  forms  of  things  unknown"  to 
the  experience  of  any  actual  eye.'^  But  the  roman- 
tics formed  a  conception  of  a  faculty  which  tran- 
scended both  remembered  and  created  visualization, 
— one  according  to  which  objects  and  sensations  became 
media  for  the  realization  of  matters  beyond  the  field  of 
the  senses,  their  inner  nature  being  perceived  and  in- 
terpreted by  the  poet  as  his  most  characteristic  function. 
The  student  of  this  subject  should  lay  beside  the  prose 
discussions  of  it  Wordsworth's  poetized  account  in  The 
Prelude;  for  example,  the  address  to  Coleridge  in  the 
i3th  Book: 

If  thou  partake  the  animating  faith 
That  poots,  even  as  prophets,  each  with  each 
Connected  in  a  mighty  scheme  of  truth, 
Have  each  his  own  peculiar  faculty, 
Heaven's  gift,  a  sense  that  fits  him  to  perceive 
Objects  unseen  before,  thou  wilt  not  blame 
The  humblest  of  this  band  who  dares  to  hope 
That  unto  him  hath  also  been  vouchsafed 
An  insight  that  in  some  sort  he  possesses, 
A  privilege  whereby  a  work  of  his, 
Proceeding  from  a  source  of  untaught  things, 
Creative   and    enduring,   may   become 
A  power  like  one  of  Nature's; — 

and  many  related  passages.  Just  who  was  the  first  to 
interpret  the  term  Imagination  in  this  way,  and  to  make 
the  corresponding  effort  to  distinguish  it  from  the  Fancy, 
is  uncertain.  Wordsworth  no  doubt  derived  it  originally 
from  Coleridge,  and  Coleridge  from  some  of  the  Ger- 
man romantics,  notably  Jean  Paul  Richter.^    The  funda- 

■  Tbu8  Addisou,  in  his  laniuus  papers  on  "The  Pleasures  of  the 
ImaKlnatiun,"  limits  bis  discussion  to  these  things,  and  (inci- 
dentally)    to  images  connected   with   the  visual   sense  alone. 

»The  latter,  in  his  Vorschulc  dcr  .f:sthi-iik  (1804),  has  a  pas- 
sage of  similar  purport,  distinguishing  Kinbildungakraft  from 
Phantaaie.  It  may  be  found  quoted  in  the  appendix  to  A.  S. 
■  Cook's  edition  of  Leigh  Hunt's  What  i«  I'oitry,  p.  76.  See  also, 
for  the  influence  on  Coleridge's  doctrine  of  the  philosophers 
Kant  and  Schelling,  the  valuable  introduction  to  J.  Shawcross's 
edition  of  the  BiograpMa  Litcraria   (Oxford,  1907). 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

mental  conception  was,  so  to  say,  in  the  air:  the  idea 
that  poetry  is  truthful  in  a  deeper  sense  than  prose  or  sci- 
ence, and  hence  is  to  be  viewed,  not  as  a  plaything  or 
recreation,  but  as  a  serious  and  philosophic  instrument 
of  thought.  Of  course  this  was  not  wholly  new ;  the  very 
words  just  used,  "serious"  and  "philosophic,"  or  some- 
thing like  them,  were  applied  by  Aristotle  to  poetry  in 
contrast  with  history,  and  were  repeated  a  thousand  times 
by  the  critics  of  the  Renaissance  and  the  neo-classical 
era.  But  these  critics  commonly  meant  that  the  superi- 
ority of  poetry  to  history  consisted  in  its  power  to  gener- 
alize, or  to  heighten  the  moral  beauty  of  experience,  by 
freedom  from  particular  fact.  The  romantics,  on  the 
other  hand,  found  it  to  consist  chiefly  in  the  power  of 
individual  intensity  of  insight  and  feeling. 

This  emphasis  on  individual  feeling  and  its  value  is, 
naturally  enough,  another  significant  element  of  the  doc- 
trine of  poetry  in  the  age  of  Wordsworth.  It  puts  Words- 
worth himself  among  the  Rousseauists,  different  as  he  is 
in  many  respects  from  those  who  bear  that  name  with 
ease.  In  his  account  of  the  typical  poet,  and  in  cer- 
tain accounts  of  his  own  writing  of  particular  poems, 
one  sees  how  he  valued  the  emotional  experience  as  the 
essence  of  the  poetic  act.  The  formula  was  simple  but 
far-reaching:  first,  a  stirring  of  the  poet's  sensibilities 
by  a  worthy  cause;  then  the  committal  to  verse  of  the 
"emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity";  then,  the  awaken- 
ing of  the  reader's  sensibilities  to  something  correspond- 
ing to  the  poet's  experience.  If  we  ask,  is  the  mere 
stirring  of  feeling,  then,  valuable  in  itself?  perhaps 
Wordsworth  does  not  answer  the  question  explicitly;  but 
he  everywhere  implies  that  the  emotional  experience 
should  be  honorable,  and  in  one  passage  connects  the  mat- 
ter of  poetic  sensibility  with  sound  thinking,  which  will 
cause  the  feelings  to  "be  connected  with  important  sub- 
jects." The  product,  he  infers,  will  be  such  that  by  it 
the  reader's  affections  will  be  not  only  "strengthened"  but 
"purified."  ^  He  would  very  likely,  then,  have  approved 
Ruskin's  later  account  of  poetry  as  concerned  with  "noble 
grounds  for  the  noble  emotions."  On  the  other  hand, 
we  find  in  Hazlitt's  criticism  the  more  truly  Rousseauis- 

*  See  page  5. 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

tic  indifFerence  to  any  other  values  than  those  of  the 
emotion  for  its  own  sake.  His  whole  account  of  poetry  is 
based  on  a  deliberate  exaltation  of  feeling;  and  he  tells 
us  explicitly  that  thfe  quality  of  the  feeling  does  not  mat- 
ter. "Fear  is  poetry,  hope  is  poetry,  love  is  poetry,  hatred 
is  poetry;  contempt,  jealousy,  remorse,  admiration,  won- 
der, pity,  despair,  or  madness,  are  all  poetry."  *  And  when 
he  quotes  Bacon's  praise  of  the  divine  quality  of  the  art  on 
the  ground  that  "it  raises  the  mind  ...  by  conforming 
the  shows  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  soul,"  it  is  not 
the  moral  betterment  of  nature,  as  commonly  understood 
by  the  passage,  which  Hazlitt  is  thinking  of;  the  illus- 
trations which  he  seeks  make  it  clear  that  it  is  the  power 
of  poetry  to  bring  all  nature,  for  the  moment,  within 
the  compass  and  thrill  of  some  one  dominant  feeling."* 

In  Shelley's  account,  even  though  the  tones  of  his 
critical  voice  resemble  Hazlitt's,  the  moral  values  of  the 
art  again  come  into  their  own.  Indeed  it  is  in  his  De- 
fense, far  more  definitely  and  eloquently  than  in  Cole- 
ridge or  Wordsworth,  that  we  find  them  set  forth.  Here 
for  the  first  time  is  presented  the  romantic  union  or 
synthesis  of  the  exaltation  of  imagination  and  feeling 
with  ethical  good.  For  Shelley  this  problem  is  a  simple 
one;  his  solution  is  found  summed  up  in  two  brief  state- 
ments. "The  great  secret  of  morals  is  love";  and,  "The 
great  instrument  of  moral  good  is  the  imagination." ' 
Devoted  to  this  one  great  emotion  and  to  this  supreme 
faculty  of  the  soul,  poetry  ministers  to  morality  by  merely 
existing,  without  need  to  take  thought  for  the  matter. 
In  general,  this  view  of  the  proper  relationship  between 
creative  art  and  goodness  has  been  the  dominant  one 
through  the  years  since  Shelley's  time. 

Of  the  other  accounts  of  the  nature  of  poetry  included 
in  this  volume,  there  is  no  great  need  to  speak  in  detail. 
From  Byron's  Letter  to  Murray,  professedly  only  a  mat- 
ter of  incidental  controversy,  there  emerges  a  theory  of 
poetry  strikingly  at  odds  with  that  of  his  great  contem- 
poraries, as  Byron  was  agreeably  well  aware.  So  far  as 
the  main  point  at  issue  is  concerned,  the  dispute  as  to  the 


«See  page  222. 
*See  page  225. 
*See  page  285. 


iiv  INTKODUCTION 

relative  values  of  "nature"  and  "art,"  no  more  futile  de- 
bate was  ever  engaged  in,  and  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether 
Bowles  or  Byron  was  the  more  blind  to  the  childish  na- 
ture of  their  arguments.  The  question  whether  one  sub- 
ject is  itself  more  "poetic"  than  another  could  have  been 
settled  by  a  moment's  reference  to  the  Wordsworthian 
doctrine  of  poetic  feeling, — for  it  was  this  that  both 
contestants  were  really  talking  about.  Byron,  profess- 
ing to  despise  the  romantics  and  all  their  works,  never- 
theless imposed  their  test  upon  his  own  evidence:  it  was 
how  he  himself  felt,  in  viewing  a  scene,  which  mattered. 
But  the  really  significant  elements  in  his  Letter,  for  our 
purposes,  are  the  incidental  signs  of  the  fact  that  his 
poetic  theory  still  dwelt  in  the  early  eighteenth  century. 
One  sign  is  his  contemptuous  reference  to  the  imagina- 
tion, and  to  the  stress  laid  upon  it  by  his  contempora- 
ries; he  knows  the  word  still  only  in  the  old  sense  of 
a  means  to  illusory  embellishment,  such  as  *'an  Irish 
peasant  with  a  little  whiskey  in  his  head"  is  possessed  of.' 
The  same  thing  is  true  of  his  emphasis  on  the  ethical 
element  in  poetry;  it  is  not  at  all  that  moral  worth  and 
beauty  with  which  Wordsworth  and  Shelley  were  con- 
cerned. For  Byron,  as  for  the  neo-classicists,  literary 
morality  consisted  in  expressing  finely  the  accumulated 
conventional  wisdom  of  the  race.  Hence  Pope  was 
worthy  of  mention  by  the  side  of  Christ  Himself.  Why, 
holding  this  doctrine,  his  Lordship  should  have  devoted 
his  own  poetry  so  largely  to  the  portrayal  of  the  uncon- 
ventional violation  of  the  traditions  of  his  race,  this  is 
not  the  place  to  inquire. 

Newman's  essay  is  another  discussion  which  reads  a 
little  like  the  product  of  an  earlier  age.  Not  in  con- 
scious opposition  to  contemporary  opinion,  but  in  serene 
repose  upon  the  classical  sources  of  critical  taste,  he 
gently  applied  these  sources  to  modem  literature  with 
characteristic  felicity  but  without  any  great  penetration 
or  originality.  His  classicism  is  shown  especially  in  his 
emphasis  on  the  "ideal,"  with  the  meaning  of  typical  or 
general,* — a  notable  sign  of  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
century  orthodoxy.    Again,  his  view  of  the  relation  of 

'  See  page  269. 
•See  pages  310-15. 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

poetry  to  morality  is  obviously  not  so  much  that  of  the 
romantics  as  it  is  that  of  the  days  of  "good  sense."  Good 
poetry  will  be  moral  because  it  is  soundly  reasonable; 
and  "rashness  of  sentiment"  is  like  "eccentricity  of  out- 
ward conduct"  ' — a  foe  to  that  communal  wisdom  which 
''oft  was  thought."  All  this  may  be  true — probably  is 
true,  and  is  not  actually  in  conflict  with  the  romantic 
doctrine;  but  it  is  by  no  means  the  special  contribution 
of  the  early  nineteenth  century  to  the  subject. 

Leigh  Hunt  had  little  of  his  own  to  contribute  to  this 
— or  any — subject,  save  clarity  of  temper,  grace  of  man- 
ner, and  clever  illustrative  matter  drawn  from  a  rich 
experience  in  reading.  His  account  of  poetry  is,  then, 
less  original  than  those  of  his  teachers,  but  more  sweetly 
reasonable,  more  systematic,  and  more  fully  thought  out, 
applied,  and  illustrated.  It  remains  one  of  the  best 
things  yet  written  to  set  a  student  thinking  about 
the  pleasures  of  poetry,  and  to  show  him  how  to  relate 
theory  to  practise.  Wordsworth's  and  Coleridge's  doc- 
trine of  the  imagination,  for  example.  Hunt  brought 
out  of  the  region  of  dubious  metaphysics  and  psychology 
in  which  they  had  left  it,  and,  making  no  mystery  of  it, 
used  it  for  practical  appreciative  purposes  as  an  instru- 
ment of  literary  criticism.  His  quoted  examples,  too, 
go  further  than  those  of  any  other  writer  to  give  a  sem- 
blance of  clearness  to  the  ever  ambiguous  distinction 
between  Imagination  and  Fancy.^°  Hunt's  most  nearly 
original  contribution  to  the  theory  of  poetry  was  that 
dealing  with  the  place  and  elements  of  metrical  form. 
This  subject  had  been  touched  upon  by  most  of  the  ear- 
lier critics.  Wordsworth  had  introduced  it  because,  in 
order  to  maintain  his  theory  that  the  language  of  poetry 
need  not  diflfer  from  that  of  prose,^^   it  seemed  neces- 

»Pngo  320. 

"  Compare  Ruskin's  later  discnssion  of  the  same  subject  In 
Modem  PaintcrB,  to  the  revised  (1883)  edition  of  which  he  pre- 
fixed the  comment  :  "The  reader  must  be  warned  not  to  trouble 
himself  with  the  distinctions  .  .  .  between  Fancy  and  Imag'ina- 
tlon.  ...  I  am  myself  now  entirely  indifferent  which  word  I 
use." 

"  See  page  9.  I  have  regretfully,  for  want  of  apace,  omitted 
the  discussion  of  this  topic  as  it  appears  in  Wordsworth's  state- 
ment of  his  theory  and  ColeridBe's  reply  (pages  121-32).  In 
general,  one  should  note  its  relation  to  his  substitution  of  the 
vital   relationship    between    poet   and    reader   for   the   old   one   of 


xvi  INTKODUCTION 

sary  to  explain  why,  in  that  case,  poetry  should  take  on 
a  different  form;  and  Coleridge,  replying  to  his  friend, 
had  gone  still  more  deeply  into  the  matter.  Hazlitt 
threw  out  some  highly  interesting  remarks  on  it,  empha- 
sizing— as  we  should  expect — the  emotional  values  of 
rhythm.^2  Shelley  fumbled  with  it,  because,  wishing  to 
treat  the  term  "poetry"  as  practically  inclusive  of  all 
imaginative  art,  he  found  metrical  form  a  disturbing 
differentia,  yet  was  forced  to  explain  why  "the  language 
of  poets  has  ever  affected  a  certain  uniform  and  har- 
monious recurrence  of  sound."  "  Leigh  Hunt,  as  usual, 
avoided  the  metaphysical  difficulties,  but  affirmed  more 
stoutly  than  any  other  writer  that  every  good  poet  is  a 
good  versifier,^*  and  proceeded  to  explain  the  relation- 
ship between  the  values  of  metrical  form  and  the  cor- 
responding values  of  poetic  style.  The  results  are  still 
valid  and  suggestiva 

II. — SHAKESPEARE 

The  new  Shakespeare  criticism  is  closely  connected  with 
the  new  doctrine  of  poetry,  and,  like  the  latter,  can  best 
be  understood  by  contrast  with  that  of  the  preceding  era. 
As  is  well  known,  the  eighteenth  century  editors  and 
critics  of  Shakespeare  found  their  position  a  perplexing 
one.  They  did  not  despise  or  neglect  him,  as  has  often 
been  supposed,  but  they  found  his  admitted  greatness 
paradoxical  because  in  his  works  the  accepted  rules  of 
dramatic  composition  were  so  generally  violated.  Hence 
the  conclusion  that  he  was  a  miraculous  exception,  a  di- 
vinely illustrious  child  of  nature,  who  might  be  viewed 
as  either  ignorant  of  or  exempt  from  the  ordinary  laws 
of  art, — therefore  not  a  safe  model  for  any  other  writer.^"* 

embellisher  and  admirer.  Since  the  f^ct,  plus  the  poet's  feeling, 
was  to  produce  the  desired  result,  only  the  simplest  language,  he 
believed,  was  needful  to  make  the  proper  impression.  Later  criti- 
cism, following  Coleridge,  has  been  generally  agreed  that  Words- 
worth did  not  sufficiently  take  account  of  the  subtle  powers  of 
poetic  language  in  communicating  both  fact  and  feeling  accu- 
rately. The  student  of  the  subject  will  find  it  admirably  dis- 
cussed in   Professor  Walter  Raleigh's  Wordsworth,  chapter  iii. 

"  See  pages  234-36. 

»»  See  pagos  281-82. 

"  Page  39r). 

"Compare  Coleridge,  page  134  below,  and  Wordsworth  in  hia 
"Bssay  Supplementary"  :     "Among  us  it  is  a  current,  I  might  say 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

It  will  be  seen  that  this  view  is  connected,  at  certain 
points,  with  the  view  of  the  imagination,  held  in  the 
same  period,  as  something  in  contrast  and  competition 
with  the  reason, — a  conception  according  to  which  rea- 
son and  imagination  were  perpetually  contending  for  the 
mastery,  a  real  work  of  art  appearing  when  the  proper 
equilibrium  was  attained.  The  converse  naturally  fol- 
lowed: when  the  imagination  was  viewed  as  superior  to 
the  reason,  or  as  a  deeper  form  of  intellectual  penetra- 
tion, the  nature  of  Shakespeare's  powers  seemed  to  be 
not  accidental  or  paradoxical,  but  in  accord  with  the  pro- 
founder  laws  of  composition,  apprehended  naturally  by 
genius. 

Of  this  doctrine  Coleridge  was  the  high  priest.  That 
he  derived  it  from 'tjermany,  in  good  part,  seems  even 
clearer  than  in  the  case  of  the  more  general  doctrine 
of  the  imagination,  though  we  cannot  altogether  dismiss 
his  earnest  protests  that  he  had  taught  the  same  things 
before  ever  having  opportunity  to  read  them  in 
Schlegel.^'  Certainly  Schlegel  furnished  him  not  only 
many  illustrative  details,  but  what  may  be  r^arded  as 
the  fundamental  analogy  for  the  whole  discussion, — 
the  notion  that  the  laws  of  Shakespeare's  art  are  organic, 
like  those  of  nature,  not  formal,  like  those  made  by 
man.^^  An  organism  represents  the  working  out  of  prin- 
ciples of  form  determined  by  its  inner  nature.  One  does 
not  gaze  upon  a  sea-monster  and  say,  "This  very  imper- 
fectly represents  my  idea  of  a  well-made  fish," — or,  if  one 
does,  one  shows  himself  to  be  a  classicist,  with  ideas  based 
on  the  average  limited  experience  of  the  past  rather  than 
on  a  conception  of  the  free  possibilities  of  marine  life. 
So  with  a  work  of  art:  if  it  is  a  living  whole,  it  may 
be  assumed  to  be  organized  according  to  laws  of  compo- 
sition founded  in  its  nature;  and  to  seek  to  understand 
these  laws  is  far  wiser  than  to  observe  that  other  laws, 
formulated  from  other  organisms,  appear  to  have  been 
violated.    This    attitude   toward    genius,    and    especially 

an  established  opinion,  that  Shakespeare  is  Justly  praised  when 
he  is  pronounced  to  be  'a  wild  irregular  iirenlus,  In  whom  great 
faults  are   compensated  by  great  beauties.'  " 

'•  See  below,  pages  137-5f),  with  the  notes. 

"  See  page  137,  with  the  note  citing  Schlegel,  wbere  the  word 
"organic'    (German  organi^ch)  appears. 


xviii  INTKODUCTION 

toward  Shakespeare,  appears  not  only  in  Coleridge  but 
in  almost  all  his  contemporaries,  and  became  the  new 
orthodoxy  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

There  is,  of  course,  an  easily  detected  fallacy  in  the 
"organic"  theory.  Art  is  never  the  product  of  sponta- 
neous natural  law,  but  is  modified  both  by  the  deliberate 
intcHtion  of  the  artist  and  by  the  unperceived  but  in- 
evitable tendencies  of  his  time  and  place.  There  are, 
then,  at  least  two  possible  sources  of  fallibility.  But  the 
romantics,  in  their  passionate  reverence  for  the  greatest 
of  their  school,  could  not  conceive  of  Shakespeare  as  do- 
ing aught  of  his  own  motion  save  for  the  greater  ex- 
cellence of  his  art;  and  they  also  thought  of  him  as  lifted 
wholly  above  the  tendencies  which  affected  his  contem- 
poraries,— a  notion,  if  they  had  stopped  to  consider  it, 
inconsistent  with  their  own  theory  of  his  work  as  or- 
ganically produced.  Hence  there  grew  up  the  doctrine 
of  his  perfection  or  infallibility.  This  may  be  seen  in 
its  fulness,  not,  perhaps,  in  Coleridge, — although  he  com- 
monly found  a  way  either  to  justify  everything  in  th« 
Shakespeare  text,  or,  failing  in  that,  to  prove  that  Shake- 
speare did  not  write  it,^* — but  in  the  mendaciously  splen- 
did conclusion  of  De  Quincey's  essay  "On  the  Knock- 
ing at  the  Gate."  ^^  Here  we  have  the  whole  story  in 
a  nutshell:  Shakespeare  is  not  like  other  men,  but  like 
nature  itself,  infallible,  unfathomable,  transcendent. 

A  natural  corollary  was  the  view  of  Shakespeare's  char- 
acters as  not  like  those  of  ordinary  creative  artists,  but 
as  possessed  of  a  kind  of  independent  and  full-rounded  ex- 
istence which  made  it  appropriate  to  discuss  them  pre- 
cisely like  actual  persons.  The  critics  of  the  new  age 
do  not  discuss  why  Shakespeare  made  Hamlet  or  Macbeth 
to  act  thus  and  so, — perhaps  explaining  the  problem  by 

'*  As  In  the  scene  of  the  drunken  porter  In  Macbeth,  which  he 
believed  "to  have  been  written  for  the  mob  by  some  other  band." 
For  his  belief  in  Shakespeare's  superhuman  powers,  see  a  passage 
in  the  seventh  lecture  of  his  course  on  Shakespeare  and  Milton 
(1811-12),  as  reported  by  Collier:  "Shakespeare  knew  the  human 
mind,  and  its  most  minute  and  intimate  workings,  and  be  never 
Introduces  a  word  or  a  thought  in  vain  or  out  of  place.  If  we 
do  not  understand  him,  it  Is  our  fault  or  the  fault  of  copyists 
or  typographers.  .  .  .  He  never  wrote  at  random,  or  hit  upon 
points  of  character  and  conduct  by  chance ;  and  the  smallest 
fragment  of  his  mind  not  unfrequently  gives  a  clue  to  a  most 
perfect,  regular,  and  consistent  whole." 

"Page  327. 


INTKODUCTION  xix 

the  source  of  the  play,  the  convenience  of  dramatic  tech- 
nique, or  the  poet's  intellectual  or  moral  purposes;  they 
discuss  why  Hamlet  or  Macbeth  did  so,  assuming  that 
the  answer  is  as  certainly  to  be  found  within  their  char- 
acters and  past  lives  as  if  they  had  been  born  and  grown 
to  manhood  before  the  time  of  the  writing  of  the  play. 
In  this  respect,  again,  they  set  the  tone  of  Shakespeare 
criticism  throughout  the  century.  It  has  been  said  that 
Hazlitt  was  the  first  thus  to  treat  Shakespeare's  charac- 
ters as  real  persons,  but  the  practise  might  well  be  traced 
back  to  Maurice  Morgann's  famous  essay  on  Falstaff 
(1777) ;  and  both  Hazlitt  and  Lamb  were  disciples  of 
Coleridge  in  their  general  attitude.  As  for  Lamb,  it 
should  be  noticed  how,  in  paradoxical  but  penetrating 
discussion  of  the  tragedies  "considered  with  reference 
to  their  fitness  for  stage  representation,"  he  bases  his  ar- 
grument  on  the  assumption  that  these  plays  are  not  like 
those  of  other  dramatists;  their  art  is  not  merely  su- 
perior,— it  is  actually  of  a  different  kind.  These  plays 
"being  in  themselves  essentially  so  different  from  all 
others,"  **  Lamb  resents  performances  in  which  the  pleas- 
ure of  the  audience  is  of  no  different  character  from  that 
awakened  by  other  writers.  And  there  is,  of  course,  just 
enough  truth  in  his  contention  to  make  its  critical  fruit- 
fulness  as  certain  as  its  whimsicality. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  this  romantic  attitude 
toward  Shakespeare  so  dominated  the  period  under  con- 
sideration as  to  exclude  other  methods  of  approach ;  much 
less  that  its  fallacious  and  exaggerated  doctrines  de- 
prived it  of  usefulness.  To  this  day  we  recognize,  in  the 
Shakespeare  interpretations  of  Coleridge  and  his  friends, 
values  which  show  no  sign  of  becoming  obsolete, — values 
primarily  due  to  the  newly  developed  sense  of  the  deeper 
qualities  of  the  poetic  imagination.  And  Coleridge  him- 
self had  more  than  a  glimmering  conception  of  the  his- 
torical method  of  criticism,  which  was  destined  to  be  the 
chief  contribution  of  the  next  age  to  Shakespeare  scholar- 
ship. He  made  use  of  this  method,  to  be  sure,  not  to 
explain — as  we  now  do — certain  elements  in  Shakespeare 
as  Elizabethan  rather  than  "for  all  time,"  but  rather  to 
explain  how  the  classicists'  objections  (such  as  to  the  vio- 

"Page  179. 


XK  INTRODUCTION 

lation  of  the  unities  of  place  and  time)  were  due  to  a 
failure  to  see  such  things  in  historical  perspective.  It 
would  be  too  much  to  expect  that  he  should  have  antici- 
pated the  products  of  the  later  era  of  evolutionary  theory, 
through  whose  labors  we  are  now  able  to  view  Shakespeare 
intelligently  in  relation  to  his  age.  Nevertheless,  Cole- 
ridge set  forth  the  principles  of  Shakespeare  interpreta- 
tion— the  relation  of  historic  to  appreciative  criticism — 
in  a  single  sentence  which  is  worthy  to  stand  at  the  head 
of  every  work  devoted  to  the  subject:  "As  a  living  poet 
must  surely  write,  not  for  the  ages  past,  but  for  that  in 
which  he  lives,  and  those  which  are  to  follow,  it  is,  on 
the  one  hand,  natural  that  he  should  not  violate,  and  on 
the  other,  necessary  that  he  should  not  depend  on,  the 
mere  manners  and  modes  of  his  day."  *^ 

in. — "correctness"  and  freedom 

Wherever  "romantic"  tendencies  become  prominent  in 
criticism,  it  displays  either  indifference  or  hostility  to 
the  formal  restrictions  which  influences  of  another  sort 
have  imposed  upon  the  artist.  If  the  preceding  age  has 
insisted  upon  unity  of  place,  or  the  exact  number  of  five 
acts,  in  the  drama,  the  romantic  is  eager  to  declare  his 
independence  of  such  commandments;  for  the  formal 
"heroic"  couplet  he  will  seek  (like  Keats)  to  substitute 
one  as  informal  and  unheroic  as  possible.  In  the  period 
we  have  to  do  with,  the  amount  of  criticism  controver- 
sially concerned  with  these  reactions  is  not  large,  for 
the  generation  immediately  preceding  had  not  been  domi- 
nated by  any  very  imposing  authority  which  it  was 
peculiarly  necessaiy  to  shake  off.  Moreover,  the  interest 
in  drama,  commonly  the  chief  battle-ground  in  such  con- 
tests of  theory,  was  extremely  slight.  Nevertheless  we 
must  notice  some  interesting  appearances  of  the  expected 
anti-classical  radicalism. 

Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  can  hardly  be  said  to  discuss 
the  subject  explicitly;  they  are  too  much  interested  in 
the  positive  problems  of  poetic  theory  and  creation.  But 
in  Wordsworth's  account  of  the  relation  of  poet,  critic, 
and  public,  in  his  "Essay   Supplementary,"   we  see  the 

»Page  140. 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

essence  of  the  romantic  position.  Every  great  original 
author,  he  says,  'Tias  had  the  task  of  creating  the  taste 
by  which  he  is  to  be  enjoyed."  The  implication  is  that 
he  will  violate  some  accepted  canon;  that  the  new  wine 
of  his  genius  will  burst  the  old  bottles  of  criticism ;  hence 
that  the  rules  or  standards  of  taste  must  be  perpetually 
revised  to  fit  the  progress  of  creative  art.  But  neither 
Wordsworth  nor  Coleridge  would  have  gone  to  extreme 
lengths  in  despising  literary  tradition. 

De  Quincey,  in  some  ways  the  arch-romantic  of  the 
age,  gives  us  another  incidental  exhibit  of  the  protestant 
position,  in  a  characteristic  passage  on  the  relative  un- 
trustworthiness  of  the  reason.  Let  the  reader,  he  ex- 
horts,*^  never  "pay  any  attention  to  his  understanding 
when  it  stands  in  opposition  to  any  other  faculty  of  his 
mind."  He  supports  this  advice  by  an  illustration  of 
which  any  schoolboy  (as  Macaulay  would  say)  could  show 
the  fallacy.  What  he  meant  was  that  the  understanding 
or  reason  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  overrule  the  more  naive 
perceptions  of  other  faculties,  but  should  take  them  into 
account  in  making  its  own  estimates;  or,  from  another 
point  of  view,  that,  while  the  reason  has  its  own  terri- 
tory in  which  to  operate,  other  faculties  have  theirs.  Of 
these,  for  him,  the  imagination  is  chief.  Whatever  his  ex- 
aggerations, one  must  admit,  to  the  glory  of  De  Quincey, 
that  he  has  given  us  perhaps  the  clearest  and  most  forcible 
statement  in  all  criticism  of  the  distinction  between  the 
characteristic  products  of  the  understanding,  on  the  one 
hand,  and  those  of  the  imagination  and  feelings  on  the 
other.  This  is  the  famous  statement  respecting  "litera- 
ture of  knowledge  and  literature  of  power"  ^^ — a  pas- 
sage which  sets  forth  the  very  raison  dfetre  and  signifi- 
cance of  all  literary  study. 

John  Wilson,  despite  his  Toryism  in  politics,  was  an 
ardent  defender  of  freedom  in  art,  and  his  outbursts  on 
the  dogmatism  of  the  classicists  (though  themselves  quite 
as  dogmatic  as  anything  he  opposed)  are  always  stimulat- 
ing. Unfortunately  he  was  too  garrulous  and  miscella- 
neous to  accomplish  any  single  piece  of  memorable 
criticism.     His  amusing  attack  on  the  detractors  of  Spen- 

»  Page  323. 
«Page  340. 


xxii  INTEODUCTION 

ser  2*  is  one  of  the  best  specimens  of  the  free  spirit  that 
gladly  breaks — and  breaks  with — all  rules. 

But  it  is  Macaulay,  curiously  enough  (since  he  was 
not  at  all  an  arch-romantic,  but  possessed  of  much  of  the 
"good  sense"  attitude  of  the  eighteenth  century),  who 
represents  most  brilliantly  the  case  of  romanticism 
against  the  rules.  Incidentally  to  his  account  of  Byron 
as  a  transition  poet  between  the  elder  age  and  the  new, 
he  launched  an  attack  upon  the  already  dying  dragon  of 
"correctness,"  ^s  and  summed  up  the  ideas  of  his  own 
generation  on  the  subject  as  emphatically  as  Keats  when 
he  cursed  the  age  which  had  been  wedded 

To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 
And  compass  vile.** 

Macaulay's  version  of  the  dogmas  of  the  school  of  Cor- 
rectness, as  any  reader  will  perceive  who  pauses  to  ana- 
lyze it,  is  far  from  just  or  fair.  He  seems,  for  the  mo- 
ment, to  have  thought  that  the  age  of  Pope  or  that  of 
Johnson  laid  down  literary  rules  as  arbitrarily  as  one 
fixes  the  winning  score  for  a  game, — ^just  as  certain  writ- 
ers of  our  own  time  appear  to  suppose  that  the  tradi- 
tional rules  of  Hebrew  and  Christian  morality  have  no 
other  basis  than  the  arbitrary  "Thou  shalt  not"  of  the 
Decalogue.  The  fact  was  that  the  better  critics  of  the 
neo-classic  era  always  justified  the  rules  by  reason  and 
taste,  never  by  arbitrary  tradition  or  authority  alone; 
even  Kymer,  the  worst  important  example  that  Macaulay 
could  find,  would  have  told  him  why  the  hero  of  a  tragedy 
should  be  thus  and  so.  But  Macaulay  had  his  lawyer's 
method  of  misstating  the  opposite  side;  and  he  was  of 
course  quite  right  in  renouncing  the  spirit  of  dry  for- 
malism which  an  over-emphasis  on  either  reason  or  tra- 
dition always  tends  to  develop.  He  was  also  doing  good 
service  in  pointing  out  the  distinction  between  correct- 
ness in  imitative  method  and  correctness  in  conventional 
form.  The  other  side  of  his  nature,  his  unromantic  strain 
of  eighteenth-century   common   sense,   is   represented   in 

»*  See  page  308. 
»•  See  page  346. 

**  See  the  whole  passage  in  Eeats's  early  poem  called  "Sleep 
and  Poetry." 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

his  swift  overthrow  of  Lamb's  defense  of  Restoration 
comedy."  Here  Macaulay  saw  the  fallacy  in  Lamb's 
good-natured  belief  in  a  world  of  comic  imagination 
freed  from  moral  implications, — a  happy  region 

Where  there  ain't  no  Ten  Commandments 
And  the  best  is  like  the  worst; — 

and  in  this  ethical  field  he  laid  down  rules  of  "correct- 
ness" as  sturdily  as  Dr.  Johnson  himself. 

IV. — THE    REVIEWS 

Of  the  thirty  or  more  essays  included,  in  whole  or  part, 
in  this  collection,  at  least  half  appeared  first  in  one  or  an- 
other of  the  new  periodicals  which,  as  has  been  said, 
form  one  of  the  most  important  aspects  of  early  nine- 
teenth century  criticism.  There  is  no  space  here  to  trace 
the  history  of  these  journals,  or  to  discuss  their  editors 
and  contributors  in  detail.  But  we  must  briefly  notice 
certain  aspects  of  three  or  four  of  them  which  are  of 
outstanding  importance  for  the  purpose  in  hand. 

The  Edinburgh  Review,  founded  1802,  for  a  long  time 
took  its  literary  tone  from  Francis  Jeffrey,  its  editor 
and — for  some  years — only  important  reviewer  in  the  field 
of  pure  literature.  Jeffrey's  critical  doctrines  and  tastes 
have  been  the  despair  of  every  later  writer  who  has  tried 
to  reduce  them  to  a  formula.  Like  Byron,  he  was  of  both 
the  eighteenth  century  and  the  nineteenth.  His  love 
for  Shakespeare  made  him  a  kindred  spirit  to  Coleridge 
and  Hazlitt,  and  he  was  not  blind  to  the  beauties  of 
Keats;  on  the  other  hand  he  was  many  parts  dogmatist 
of  the  old  school,  and  in  the  very  £rst  number  of  the 
Edinburgh  announced  his  creed  in  the  ominous  words : 
"Poetry  has  this  much,  at  least,  in  common  with  religion, 
that  its  standards  were  fixed  long  ago,  by  certain  inspired 
writers,  whose  authority  it  is  no  longer  lawful  to  call  in 
question."  ^^  Most  notably,  he  was  totally  incapable  of 
appreciating  the  special  qualities  of  Wordsworth,  and  the 
Edinburgh  soon  became  notorious  among  the  "lake  poets" 
and  their  friends  for  the  successive  attacks  hurled  against 

"Pages  359-62. 

*•  In  a  review  of  Soutbey's  Thalata. 


xxiv  INTEODUCTION 

that  poet's  works.  Of  these  the  most  important,  and  on 
the  whole  the  least  crabbed  and  unfair,  was  the  review 
of  The  Excursion,  in  1814.2*  It  is  a  characteristic  in- 
justice of  literary  history  that  Jeffrey  should  be  more 
largely  remembered  for  his  heresy  in  the  matter  of  Words- 
worth than  for  all  the  sound  and  judicious  criticism 
which  he  wrote.  Not  only  was  he  not  always  pugnacious 
and  domineering,  but  he  did  much  to  teach  the  art  of 
studying  a  particular  author  in  connection  with  his  age 
(as  in  his  review  of  the  Works  of  John  Ford)  or  with 
some  literary  problem  to  which  his  work  gave  rise  (as 
in  the  discussion  of  popular  poetry  in  the  review  of  The 
Lady  of  the  Lake).  Moreover,  Jeffrey  set  the  example  of 
a  critical  style  which  pretty  well  balanced  the  qualities 
of  dignity  and  vivacity;  he  could  write  reviews  which 
would  interest  equally  those  concerned  for  the  subject- 
matter  of  the  works  under  discussion  and  those  seeking 
agreeable  literary  reading.  In  this  way,  indeed,  the  Edin- 
burgh really  discovered  a  new  type  of  essay, — that  which 
purported  to  be  a  review  but  earned  a  right  to  exist  as  an 
independent  composition.  This  is  the  type  known  best  to 
everyone  in  the  essays  of  Macaulay,  most  of  which  are 
book- reviews  first  of  all;  and  Macaulay  was  Jeffrey's 
great  pupil,  contributor,  and  successor  as  Edinburgh  re- 
viewer. 

The  Quarterly  Review,  founded  1809,  has  a  somewhat 
less  honorable  history  than  the  Edinburgh,  being  bom 
of  the  demand  for  a  Tory  organ  which  should  become 
as  influential  as  the  Edinburgh  was  among  Whigs.  Ordi- 
narily there  is  little  to  choose  between  partisan  organs, 
at  least  from  a  literary  standpoint;  but  in  this  instance 
it  is  fair  to  recall  that  the  Edinburgh  did  not  live,  move, 
and  have  its  being  for  party  purposes  (though  frankly 
Whig  in  its  attitude  toward  parliamentary  questions),  and 
also  that  it  did  not  mix  politics  with  its  literary  criti- 
cism. Jeffrey  did  not  condemn  Wordsworth  because  the 
poet  had  become  a  Tory,  nor  praise  Keats  because  of 
any  friendship  for  the  radicals.  The  Quarterly,  however, 
especially  under  its  first  editor  William  Gifford,  was  dis- 

» Page  67.  Coleridge's  indignant  reply  to  this,  and  to  the 
methods  of  the  Edinburgh  in  general,  is  to  be  found  in  a  section 
of  the  BiograpMa  Literaria  (chapter  21)  called  "Remarks  on  the 
present  mode  of  conducting  critical  journals." 


INTRODUCTION  xt9 

posed  to  view  the  social  and  intellectual  community  as 
essentially  one,  and  to  test  writings  of  all  kinds  accord- 
ing as  they  represented  the  conservative  or  the  radical 
spirit.  Moreover,  GifFord  was  neither  capable  himself, 
nor  did  he  find  a  leading  reviewer  who  was  capable,  of 
treating  literary  questions  in  the  method  of  which  Jeffrey 
was  master, — acute,  often  pungent,  but  sincerely  disin- 
terested. Some  notable  men  of  letters,  to  be  sure,  were 
at  the  command  of  the  Quarterly,  notably  Scott  and 
Southey,  but  neither  of  these  really  shone  in  criticism. 
Scott  was  amiable  to  a  fault,  and  did  what  he  could  to 
modify  the  savagery  of  Quarterly  manners;  but  much 
more  positive  merits  than  this  are  necessary  to  critical 
distinction.  Southey  was  usually  also  amiable  (except 
when  his  moral  antipathies  were  aroused  by  Byron  and 
his  "Satanic"  school),  besides  being  both  learned  and 
conscientious;  but  not  a  single  paper  of  his  in  the  field 
of  literary  criticism  can  be  thought  memorable.  Another 
prominent  contributor  was  John  Wilson  Croker,  who, 
from  his  political  associations,  would  have  been  thought 
likely  to  devote  himself  to  works  in  that  field,  but  who 
seems  actually  to  have  found  most  pleasure  in  invading 
the  field  of  poetry.  Unfortunately  for  his  reputation,  the 
anonymity  of  his  work  has  been  penetrated  by  the  ruth- 
less researches  which  have  attached  his  name  to  the  Quar- 
terly's ill-famed  review  of  Endymion,  proving  that  it  was 
he  whom  Shelley  immortalized  as  a  "deaf  and  viperous 
murderer"  and  a  "noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name."  ^^ 
We  no  longer  believe  that  this  review  hastened  (much 
less  caused)  the  death  of  Keats,  and  hence  can  view  it 
more  calmly  than  Croker's  contemporaries.  We  can  see 
that  most  of  the  charges  which  the  reviewer  brought 
against  Endymion  were  pretty  well  justified,  and  that  his 
fault  lay  only  in  a  not  unnatural  blindness  to  the  beauty 
and  promise  of  the  experimental  work  before  him,  together 
with  a  typical  rude  pleasure  in  inflicting  pain.  This  last 
is  a  characteristic  of  anonymous  reviewers  in  all  peri- 
ods, but  was  at  its  height  of  respectability  in  Quarterly 
circles  under  Gifford  and  his  successor  John  Gibson  Lock- 
hart.  Hazlitt  was  another  of  the  younger  London  writers 
whom  the  Quarterly  delighted  to  maltreat.  There  was  no 
"  Adonais,  stanzas  36-37. 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

harm  in  this,  for  he  was  himself  a  reviewer  of  no  very 
gentle  pen,  was  well  able  to  defend  himself,  and  besides, 
unlike  Keats,  was  a  belligerent  radical  in  politics.  When 
Gifford  had  made  this  the  excuse  to  damn  his  work  'on 
Shakespeare,  Hazlitt  turned  upon  his  assailant  in  one  of 
the  most  satisfying  pieces  of  vituperation  in  the  English 
tongue, — to  be  found  in  his  Letter  to  William  Gifford, 
Esq.  (1819).  "There  cannot  be  a  greater  nuisance,"  he 
wrote,  "than  a  duU,  envious,  pragmatical,  low-bred  man, 
who  is  placed  as  you  are  in  the  situation  of  the  editor  of 
such  a  work  as  the  Quarterly  Review.  .  .  .  He  insults 
over  unsuccessful  authors;  he  hates  successful  ones.  He 
is  angry  at  the  faults  of  a  work,  more  angry  at  its  excel- 
lences. .  .  .  Grown  old  in  the  service  of  corruption,  he 
drivels  on  to  the  last  with  prostituted  impotence  and 
shameless  effrontery;  salves  a  meagre  reputation  for  wit 
by  venting  the  driblets  of  his  spleen  and  impertinence 
on  others;  answers  their  arguments  by  confuting  him- 
self; mistakes  habitual  obtuseness  of  intellect  for  a  par- 
ticular acuteness,  unprincipled  rancor  for  zealous  loy- 
alty, and  the  irritable,  discontented,  vindictive,  peevish 
effusions  of  bodily  pain  and  mental  imbecility  for  proofs 
of  refinement  of  taste  and  strength  of  understanding." 
This  was  how  the  Quarterly  appeared  in  the  circles  of 
those  who  had  felt  its  lash. 

Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine,  founded  1817,  was 
primarily,  as  its  name  indicates,  not  a  review,  and  did 
not  devote  its  columns  to  criticism  in  any  large  measure. 
But  its  publisher  and  chief  contributors  were  Tories,  and 
young  John  Lockhart  in  particular  (a  Blackwood  sene- 
schal until  he  assumed  the  editorship  of  the  Quarterly  in 
1825)  was  always  eager  to  castigate  the  follies  of  those  of 
other  schools.  It  is  probably  to  Lockhart's  pen  that  we 
are  to  attribute  the  disgraceful  series  of  papers  on  "The 
Cockney  School,"  ^^  which  without  provocation  maligned 
the  group  of  London  poets  of  which  Leigh  Hunt  was  at 
the  time  the  leading  spirit.  Hunt  and  his  brother  were 
notorious  radicals,  and  Blackwood's  was  pleased  to  find 
in  his  poetry — and  that  of  his  friends — the  moral  and 
literary  faults  which  were  to  be  expected  of  such  ras- 
cals.    One  sentence  gives  the  clue  to  the  attack:     "His 

»»See  page  165.  ■ 


INTKODUCTION  rsvii 

works  exhibit  no  reverence  either  for  God  or  man ;  neither 
altar  nor  throne  have  any  dignity  in  his  eyes."  Hunt 
would  perhaps  have  acknowledged  the  truth  of  the  second 
clause,  but  did  not  view  God  and  altar,  or  man  and  throne, 
as  synonyms.  The  Endymion  paper,  in  this  series,  is  a 
continuation  of  that  on  Hunt,  and  it  will  be  seen  that  it 
was  Keats's  friendship  for  the  older  poet  that  brought 
him  within  range  of  Lockhart's  blows.  His  chief  poetic 
offense  may  have  been  found  not  in  Endymion,  but  in 
the  verses  called  "Sleep  and  Poetry,"  published  a  year 
earlier,  in  which  he  had  declared  war  on  the  schools  of 
Pope  and  Boileau.  This  was  enough  in  itself  to  ally  him 
with  the  enemies  of  altar  and  throne. 

Critical  violence  of  this  sort  seems  now  strangely — 
and  happily — far  away.  Modem  reviewing  leaves  much 
to  be  desired ;  but  it  would  be  difficult  now  to  find  a  jour- 
nal of  position  which  should  deliberately  damn  a  young 
poet  because  of  his  political  friendships,  or  undertake  in 
general  to  mingle  social,  personal,  and  literary  considera- 
tions in  the  blustering  confusion  displayed  by  the  Quar- 
terly and  Blackwood's.  Nor  is  there  any  critic  living 
who,  by  calling  names  and  uttering  sound  and  fury,  can 
seriously  injure  the  prospects  of  any  promising  writer, 
howsoever  obscure  or  humble  he  may  be. 

It  remains  to  note  that  the  further  development  of  the 
magazine,  in  both  Scotland  and  England,  gave  increased 
opportunity  for  the  growth  of  the  critical  essay  of  a  type 
more  popular  than  that  developed  by  the  reviews.  The 
London  Magazine,  founded  1820,  had  a  particularly  bril- 
liant list  of  contributors,  among  whom  easily  the  chief 
were  DeQuincey  and  Lamb.  Both  these  writers  were 
aloof  from  the  controversies  that  darkened  the  air  in  more 
worldly  regions  than  those  where  their  minds  dwelt,  and 
at  their  best  they  showed  the  possibilities  of  disinterested 
criticism — criticism  which  sometimes  exhibits  the  imag- 
inative merits  of  poetry — in  ways  that  led  forward  to 
the  finest  work  of  the  next  age. 

Raymond  M.  Alden. 


CRITICAL  ESSAYS  OF  THE 

EARLY  NINETEENTH 

CENTURY 

PREFACE  TO  THE  LYRICAL  BALLADS 

WiLLUM  Wordsworth 

[The  first  edition  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  appeared  in  1798, 
but  the  Preface  was  written  for  that  of  1800.  In  later  vol- 
umes of  Wordsworth's  poems  it  appeared  in  the  Appendix. 
For  comments  on  the  controversies  to  which  it  gave  rise,  see 
Coleridge's  remarks,  pages  112-13,  and  De  Quincey's,  page 
328.] 

The  first  volume  of  these  poems  has  already  been  sub- 
mitted to  general  perusal.  It  was  published  as  an  ex- 
periment, which  I  hoped  might  be  of  some  use  to  ascer- 
tain how  far,  by  fitting  to  metrical  arrangement  a 
selection  of  the  real  language  of  men  in  a  state  of  vivid 
sensation,  that  sort  of  pleasure  and  that  quantity  of  pleas- 
ure may  be  imparted,  which  a  poet  may  rationally  en- 
deavor to  impart. 

I  had  formed  no  very  inaccurate  estimate  of  the  prob- 
able effect  of  those  poems:  I  flattered  myself  that  they 
who  should  be  pleased  with  them  would  read  them  with 
more  than  common  pleasure:  and,  on  the  other  hand,  I 
was  well  aware  that  by  those  who  should  dislike  them 
they  would  be  read  with  more  than  common  dislike.  The 
result  has  differed  from  my  expectation  in  this  only,  that 
a  greater  number  have  been  pleased  than  I  ventured  to 
hope  I  should  please. 

Several  of  my  friends  are  anxious  for  the  success  of 
these  poems,  from  a  belief  that,  if  the  views  with  which 
they  were  composed  were  indeed  realized,  a  class  of  poetry 
would  be  produced,  well   adapted   to   interest   mankind 

1 


2  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

permanently,  and  not  unimportant  in  the  quality  and  in 
the  multiplicity  of  its  moral  relations:  and  on  this  ac- 
count they  have  advised  me  to  prefix  a  systematic  de- 
fence of  the  theory  upon  which  the  poems  were  written. 
But  I  was  unwilling  to  undertake  the  task,  knowing  that 
on  this  occasion  the  reader  would  look  coldly  upon  my 
arguments,  since  I  might  be  suspected  of  having  been 
principally  influenced  by  the  selfish  and  foolish  hope  of 
reasoning  him  into  an  approbation  of  these  particular 
poems;  and  I  was  still  more  unwilling  to  undertake  the 
task,  because  adequately  to  display  the  opinions,  and  fully 
to  enforce  the  arguments,  would  require  a  space  wholly 
disproportionate  to  a  preface.  For  to  treat  the  subject 
with  the  clearness  and  coherence  of  which  it  is  suscep- 
tible, it  would  be  necessary  to  give  a  fuU  account  of  the 
present  state  of  the  public  taste  in  this  country,  and  to 
determine  how  far  this  taste  is  healthy  or  depraved; 
which,  again,  could  not  be  determined,  without  pointing 
out  in  what  manner  language  and  the  human  mind  act 
and  re-act  on  each  other,  and  without  retracing  the  revo- 
lutions, not  of  literature  alone,  but  likewise  of  society 
itself.  I  have  therefore  altogether  declined  to  enter  regu- 
larly upon  this  defence ;  yet  I  am  sensible  that  there  would 
be  something  like  impropriety  in  abruptly  obtruding  upon 
the  public,  without  a  few  words  of  introduction,  poems 
so  materially  different  from  those  upon  which  general 
approbation  is  at  present  bestowed. 

It  is  supposed  that  by  the  act  of  writing  in  verse  an 
author  makes  a  formal  engagement  that  he  will  gratify 
certain  known  habits  of  association ;  that  he  not  only  thus 
apprises  the  reader  that  certain  classes  of  ideas  and  ex- 
pressions will  be  found  in  his  book,  but  that  others  will  be 
carefully  excluded.  This  exponent  or  symbol  held  forth 
by  metrical  language  must  in  different  eras  of  literature 
have  excited  very  different  expectations:  for  example,  in 
the  age  of  Catullus,  Terence,  and  Lucretius,  and  that  of 
Statius  or  Claudian;  and  in  our  own  country,  in  the  age 
of  Shakespeare  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  that  of 
Donne  and  Cowley,  or  Dryden,  or  Pope.  I  will  not  take 
upon  me  to  determine  the  exact  import  of  the  promise 
which,  by  the  act  of  writing  in  verse,  an  author  in  the 
present  day  makes  to  his  reader;  but  it  will  undoubtedly 


WORDSWORTH  3 

appear  to  many  persons  that  I  Lave  not  fulfilled  the  terms 
of  an  engagement  thus  voluntarily  contracted.  They  who 
have  been  accustomed  to  the  gaudiness  and  inane  phrase- 
ology of  many  modem  writers,  if  they  persist  in  reading 
this  book  to  its  conclusion,  will,  no  doubt,  frequently  have 
to  struggle  with  feelings  of  strangeness  and  awkwardness : 
they  will  look  round  for  poetry,  and  will  be  induced  to 
inquire  by  what  species  of  courtesy  these  attempts  can 
be  permitted  to  assume  that  title.  I  hope,  therefore,  the 
reader  will  not  censure  me  for  attempting  to  state  what  I 
have  proposed  to  myself  to  perform;  and  also  (as  far  as 
the  limits  of  a  preface  will  permit)  to  explain  some  of 
the  chief  reasons  which  have  determined  me  in  the  choice 
of  my  purpose:  that  at  least  he  may  be  spared  any  un- 
pleasant feeling  of  disappointment,  and  that  I  myself  may 
be  protected  from  one  of  the  most  dishonorable  accusa- 
tions which  can  be  brought  against  an  author;  namely, 
that  of  an  indolence  which  prevents  him  from  endeavor- 
ing to  ascertain  what  is  his  duty,  or,  when  his  duty  is 
ascertained,  prevents  him  from  performing  it. 

The  principal  object,  then,  proposed  in  these  poems  was 
to  choose  incidents  and  situations  from  common  life,  and 
to  relate  or  describe  them,  throughout,  as  far  as  was  pos- 
sible in  a  selection  of  language  really  used  by  men,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  to  throw  over  them  a  certain  coloring 
of  imagination,  whereby  ordinary  things  should  be  pre- 
sented to  the  mind  in  an  unusual  aspect;^  and  further, 
and  above  all,  to  make  these  incidents  and  situations  in- 
teresting by  tracing  in  them,  truly  though  not  ostenta- 
tiously, the  primary  laws  of  our  nature:  chiefly,  as  far 
as  regards  the  manner  in  which  we  associate  ideas  in  a 
state  of  excitement.  Humble  and  rustic  life  was  gener- 
ally chosen,  because  in  that  condition  the  essential  pas- 
sions of  the  heart  find  a  better  soil  in  which  they  can 
attain  their  maturity,  are  less  under  restraint,  and  speak 
a  plainer  and  more  emphatic  language;  because  in  that 
condition  of  life  our  elementary  feelings  coexist  in  a 
state  of  greater  simplicity,  and  consequently  may  be 
more  accurately  contemplated  and  more  forcibly  com- 
mimicated;  because  the  manners  of  rural  life  germinate 

*  Compare  Coleridge's  account  of  the  Lyrical  Ballada,  p.  105. 


4  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

from  those  elementary  feelings,  and,  from  the  necessary 
character  of  rural  occupations,  are  more  easily  compre- 
hended, and  are  more  durable;  and,  lastly,  because  in  that 
condition  the  passions  of  men  are  incorporated  with  the 
beautiful  and  permanent  forms  of  nature.  The  language, 
too,  of  these  men  has  been  adopted  (purified  indeed  from 
what  appear  to  be  its  real  defects,  from  all  lasting  and  ra- 
tional causes  of  dislike  or  disgust)  because  such  men 
hourly  communicate  with  the  best  objects  from  which  the 
best  part  of  language  is  originally  derived;  and  because, 
from  their  rank  in  society  and  the  sameness  and  narrow 
circle  of  their  intercourse,  being  less  under  the  influence 
of  social  vanity,  they  convey  their  feelings  and  notions 
in  simple  and  unelaborated  expressions.  Accordingly, 
such  a  language,  arising  out  of  repeated  experience  and 
regular  feelings,  is  a  more  permanent  and  a  far  more 
philosophical  language  than  that  which  is  frequently  sub- 
stituted for  it  by  poets,  who  think  that  they  are  con- 
ferring honor  upon  themselves  and  their  art,  in  propor- 
tion as  they  separate  themselves  from  the  sympathies  of 
men,  and  indulge  in  arbitrary  and  capricious  habits  of 
expression,  in  order  to  furnish  food  for  fickle  tastes,  and 
fickle  appetities,  of  their  own  creation.^ 

I  cannot,  however,  be  insensible  to  the  present  outcry 
against  the  triviality  and  meanness,  both  of  thought  and 
language,  which  some  of  my  contemporaries  have  occa- 
sionally introduced  into  their  metrical  compositions;  and 
I  acknowledge  that  this  defect,  where  it  exists,  is  more 
dishonorable  to  the  writer's  own  character  than  false  re- 
finement or  arbitrary  innovation,  though  I  should  con- 
tend at  the  same  time  that  it  is  far  less  pernicious  in  the 
sum  of  its  consequences.  From  such  verses  the  poems  in 
these  volumes  will  be  found  distinguished  at  least  by  one 
mark  of  difference,  that  each  of  them  has  a  worthy  pur- 
pose. Not  that  I  always  began  to  write  with  a  distinct 
purpose  formally  conceived ;  but  habits  of  meditation  have, 
I  trust,  so  prompted  and  regulated  my  feelings,  that  my 
descriptions  of  such  objects  as  'Strongly  excite  those  feel- 
ings will  be  found  to  carry  along  with  them  a  purpose. 

*  It  Is  worth  while  here  to  observe  that  the  affecting  parts  of 
CThaucer  are  almost  always  expressed  in  lan^age  pure  and  uni- 
versally Intelligible  even  to  this  day.     [Wordsworth's  note.] 


WORDSWORTH  6 

If  this  opinion  be  erroneous,  I  can  have  little  right  to  the 
name  of  a  poet.  For  all  good  poetry  is  the  spontaneous 
overflow  of  powerful  feelings:  and  though  this  be  true, 
poems  to  which  any  value  can  be  attached  were  never 
produced  on  any  variety  of  subjects  but  by  a  man  who, 
being  possessed  of  more  than  usual  organic  sensibility, 
had  also  thought  long  and  deeply.  For  our  continued  in- 
fluxes of  feeling  are  modified  and  directed  by  our  thoughts, 
which  are  indeed  the  representatives  of  all  our  past  feel- 
ings; and,  as  by  contemplating  the  relation  of  these  gen- 
eral representatives  to  each  other,  we  discover  what  is 
really  important  to  men,  so,  by  the  repetition  and  con- 
tinuance of  this  act,  our  feelings  will  be  connected  with 
important  subjects,  till  at  length,  if  we  be  originally  pos- 
sessed of  much  sensibility,  such  habits  of  mind  will  be 
produced  that,  by  obeying  blindly  and  mechanically  the 
impulses  of  those  habits,  we  shall  describe  objects,  and 
utter  sentiments,  of  such  a  nature,  and  in  such  connec- 
tion with  each  other,  that  the  understanding  of  the 
reader  must  necessarily  be  in  some  degree  enlightened,  and 
his  affections  strengthened  and  purified. 

It  has  been  said  that  each  of  these  poems  has  a  pur- 
pose. Another  circumstance  must  be  mentioned  which 
distinguishes  these  poems  from  the  popular  poetry  of  the 
day;  it  is  this,  that  the  feeling  therein  developed  gives 
importance  to  the  action  and  situation,  and  not  the  action 
and  situation  to  the  feeling. 

A  sense  of  false  modesty  shall  not  prevent  me  from  as- 
serting that  the  reader's  attention  is  pointed  to  this  mark 
of  distinction,  far  less  for  the  sake  of  these  particular 
poems  than  from  the  general  importance  of  the  subject. 
The  subject  is  indeed  important!  For  the  human  mind 
is  capable  of  being  excited  without  the  application  of 
gross  and  violent  stimulants;  and  he  must  have  a  very 
faint  perception  of  its  beauty  and  dicmity  who  does  not 
know  this,  and  who  does  not  further  know  that  one  being 
is  elevated  above  another  in  proportion  as  he  possesses 
this  capability.  It  has  therefore  appeared  to  me  that  to 
endeavor  to  produce  or  enlarge  this  capability  is  one  of 
the  best  services  in  which,  at  any  period,  a  writer  can  be 
engaged;  but  this  service,  excellent  at  all  times,  is  espe- 
cially so  at  the  present  day.     For  a  multitude  of  causes. 


6  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

unknown  to  former  times,  are  now  acting  with  a  com- 
bined force  to  blunt  the  discriminating  powers  of  the 
mind,  and,  unfitting  it  for  all  voluntary  exertion,  to  re- 
duce it  to  a  state  of  almost  savage  torpor.  The  most  ef- 
fective of  these  causes  are  the  great  national  events  which 
are  daily  taking  place,  and  the  increasing  accumulation 
of  men  in  cities,  where  the  uniformity  of  their  occupa- 
tions produces  a  craving  for  extraordinary  incident,  which 
the  rapid  communication  of  intelligence  hourly  gratifies 
Xo  this  tendency  of  life  and  manners  the  literature  and 
theatrical  exhibitions  of  the  country  have  conformed 
themselves.  The  invaluable  works  of  our  elder  writers,  I 
had  almost  said  the  works  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  are 
driven  into  neglect  by  frantic  novels,  sickly  and  stupid 
German  tragedies,'  and  deluges  of  idle  and  extravagant 
stories  in  verse.  When  I  think  upon  this  degrading  thirst 
after  outrageous  stimulation,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to 
have  spoken  of  the  feeble  endeavor  made  in  these  volumes 
to  counteract  it;  and,  reflecting  upon  the  magnitude  of 
the  general  evil,  I  should  be  oppressed  with  no  dishonor- 
able melancholy,  had  I  not  a  deep  impression  of  certain 
inherent  and  indestructible  qualities  of  the  human  mind, 
and  likewise  of  certain  powers  in  the  great  and  perma- 
nent objects  that  act  upon  it,  which  are  equally  inherent 
and  indestructible;  and  were  there  not  added  to  this  im- 
pression a  belief  that  the  time  is  approaching  when  the 
evil  will  be  systematically  opposed,  by  men  of  greater 
powers,  and  with  far  more  distinguished  success. 

Having  dwelt  thus  long  on  the  subjects  and  aim  of 
these  poems,  I  shall  request  the  reader's  permission  to 
apprise  him  of  a  few  circumstances  relating  to  their 
style,  in  order,  among  other  reasons,  that  he  may  not  cen- 
sure me  for  not  having  performed  what  I  never  attempted. 
The  reader  will  find  that  personifications  of  abstract 
ideas  rarely  occur  in  these  volumes,  and  are  utterly  re- 
jected, as  an  ordinary  device  to  elevate  the  style,  and 
raise  it  above  prose.  My  purpose  was  to  imitate,  and,  as 
far  as  possible,  to  adopt  the  very  language  of  men;  and 
assuredly  such  personifications  do  not  make  any  natural 

»  Wordsworth  probably  has  In  mind  some  of  the  plays  of  Kotze- 
bue,  and  perhaps  early  plays  of  Schiller's  and  Goethe's,  all  of 
which  had  exerted  some  influence  in  England. 


WORDSWORTH  7 

or  regular  part  of  that  language.  They  are,  indeed,  a  fig- 
ure of  speech  occasionally  prompted  by  passion,  and  I 
have  made  use  of  them  as  such;  but  have  endeavored  ut- 
terly to  reject  them  as  a  mechanical  device  of  style,  or  as 
a  family  language  which  writers  in  meter  seem  to  lay 
claim  to  by  prescription,  I  have  wished  to  keep  the  reader 
in  the  company  of  flesh  and  blood,  persuaded  that  by  so 
doing  I  shall  interest  him.  Others  who  pursue  a  different 
track  will  interest  him  likewise;  I  do  not  interfere  with 
their  claim,  but  wish  to  prefer  a  claim  of  my  own.  There 
will  also  be  found  in  these  volumes  little  of  what  is  usually 
called  poetic  diction;*  as  much  pains  has  been  taken  to 
avoid  it  as  is  ordinarily  taken  to  produce  it;  this  has 
been  done  for  the  reason  already  alleged,  to  bring  my 
language  near  to  the  language  of  men;  and  further,  be- 
cause the  pleasure  which  I  have  proposed  to  myself  to 
impart  is  of  a  kind  very  different  from  that  which  is 
supposed  by  many  persons  to  be  the  proper  object  of 
poetry.  Without  being  culpably  particular,  I  do  not  know 
how  to  give  my  reader  a  more  exact  notion  of  the  style 
in  which  it  was  my  wish  and  intention  to  write,  than  by 
informing  him  that  I  have  at  all  times  endeavored  to 
look  steadily  at  my  subject ;  consequently  there  is,  I  hope, 
in  these  poems  little  falsehood  of  description,  and  my 
ideas  are  expressed  in  language  fitted  to  their  respective 
importance.  Something  must  have  been  gained  by  this 
practice,  as  it  is  friendly  to  one  property  of  all  good 
poetry,  namely,  good  sense:  but  it  has  necessarily  cut  me 
off  from  a  large  portion  of  phrases  and  figures  of  speech 
which  from  father  to  son  have  long  been  regarded  as  the 
common  inheritance  of  poets.  I  have  also  thought  it  ex- 
pedient to  restrict  myself  still  further,  having  abstained 

'  Id  an  appendix  to  the  Preface,  Wordsworth  explained  bis  nse 
of  the  term  "poetic  diction."  "The  earliest  poets  of  all  nations 
generally  wrote  from  passion  excited  by  real  events ;  they  wrote 
naturally,  and  as  men :  feeling  powerfully,  &a  they  did,  their 
language  was  daring,  and  figurative.  In  succeeding  times,  poets, 
and  men  ambitious  of  the  fame  of  poets,  perceiving  the  influence 
of  such  language,  and  desirous  of  producing  the  same  effect  with- 
out being  animated  by  the  same  passion,  set  themselves  to  a 
mechanical  adoption  or  these  figures  of  speech,  and  made  use  of 
them,  sometimes  with  propriety,  but  much  more  frequently  applied 
them  to  feelings  and  thoughts  with  which  they  had  no  natural 
connection  whatsoever.  A  language  was  thus  insensibly  produced, 
dlCTering  materially  from  the  real  lantrnnce  of  men  in  any  sit- 
uation." 


8  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

from  the  use  of  many  expressions,  in  themselves  proper 
and  beautiful,  but  which  have  been  foolishly  repeated  by 
bad  poets,  till  such  feelings  of  disgust  are  connected  with 
them  as  it  is  scarcely  possible  by  any  art  of  association 
to  overpower. 

If  in  a  poem  there  should  be  found  a  series  of  lines,  or 
even  a  single  line,  in  which  the  language,  though  naturally 
arranged,  and  according  to  the  strict  laws  of  meter,  does 
not  differ  from  that  of  prose,  there  is  a  numerous  class 
of  critics,  who,  when  they  stumble  upon  these  prosaisms, 
as  they  call  them,  imagine  that  they  have  made  a  notable 
discovery,  and  exult  over  the  poet  as  over  a  man  ignorant 
of  his  own  profession.  Now  these  men  would  establish 
a  canon  of  criticism  which  the  reader  will  conclude  he 
must  utterly  reject,  if  he  wishes  to  be  pleased  with  these 
volumes.  And  it  would  be  a  most  easy  task  to  prove  to 
him  that  not  only  the  language  of  a  large  portion  of  every 
good  poem,  even  of  the  most  elevated  character,  must 
necessarily,  except  with  reference  to  the  meter,  in  no  re- 
spect differ  from  that  of  good  prose,  but  likewise  that 
some  of  the  most  interesting  parts  of  the  best  poems  will 
be  found  to  be  strictly  the  language  of  prose  when  prose 
is  well  written.  The  truth  of  this  assertion  might  be 
demonstrated  by  innumerable  passages  from  almost  all  the 
poetical  writings,  even  of  Milton  himself.  To  illustrate 
the  subject  in  a  general  manner,  I  will  here  adduce  a 
short  composition  of  Gray,  who  was  at  the  head  of  those 
who,  by  their  reasonings,  have  attempted  to  widen  the 
space  of  separation  betwixt  prose  and  metrical  composi- 
tion, and  was  more  than  any  other  man  curiously  elab- 
orate in  the  structure  of  his  own  poetic  diction. 

In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 
And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire: 
The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join, 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire. 
These  ears,  alas!  for  other  notes  repine; 
A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require; 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine; 
And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire; 
Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 
And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men; 


WORDSWORTH  9 

The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear ; 
To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain. 
/  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear. 
And  weep  the  more  because  I  weep  in  vain.^ 

It  will  easily  be  perceived,  that  the  only  part  of  this 
sonnet  which  is  of  any  value  is  the  lines  printed  in  italics ; 
it  is  equally  obvious  that,  except  in  the  rhyme,  and  in 
the  use  of  the  single  word  "fruitless"  for  fruitlessly,  which 
is  so  far  a  defect,  the  language  of  these  lines  does  in  no 
respect  differ  from  that  of  prose. 

By  the  foregoing  quotation  it  has  been  shown  that  the 
language  of  prose  may  yet  be  well  adapted  to  poetry ;  and 
it  was  previously  asserted  that  a  large  portion  of  the 
language  of  every  good  poem  can  in  no  respect  differ  from 
that  of  good  prose.  We  will  go  further.  It  may  be  safely 
affirmed  that  there  neither  is,  nor  can  be,  any  essential 
difference  between  the  language  of  prose  and  metrical 
composition.  We  are  fond  of  tracing  the  resemblance  be- 
tween poetry  and  painting,  and,  accordingly,  we  call  them 
sisters:  but  where  shall  we  find  bonds  of  connection  suf- 
ficiently strict  to  typify  the  affinity  betwixt  metrical  and 
prose  composition?  They  both  speak  by  and  to  the  same 
organs ;  the  bodies  in  which  both  of  them  are  clothed  may 
be  said  to  be  of  the  same  substance,  their  affections  are 
kindred,  and  almost  identical,  not  necessarily  differing 
even  in  d^ree ;  poetry  *  sheds  no  tears  **such  as  angels 
weep,"  but  natural  and  human  tears;  she  can  boast  of  no 
celestial   ichor   that  distinguishes   her  vital  juices  from 

■This  sonnet  was  written  in  1742,  "on  the  Death  of  Richard 
West." 

•  I  here  use  the  word  Poetry  (though  against  my  own  Judgment) 
as  opposed  to  the  word  Prose,  and  synonymous  with  metrical  com- 
position. But  much  confusion  has  been  Introduct'd  into  criticism 
by  this  contradistinction  of  poetry  and  prose,  instead  of  the  more 
philosophical  one  of  Poetry  and  Matter  of  Fact,  or  Science.  The 
only  strict  antithesis  to  Prose  is  Metre ;  nor  is  this,  in  truth,  a 
atrict  antithesis,  because  lines  and  passages  of  metre  so  naturally 
occur  in  writing  prose,  that  it  would  be  scarcely  possible  to  avoid 
them,  even  were  it  desirable.  [Wordsworth's  note.  Compare 
Coleridge,  in  his  fragment  "On  the  Principles  of  Genial  Criticism 
concerning  the  Fine  Arts":  "The  common  essence  of  all  [the 
fine  arts)  consists  in  the  excitement  of  emotion  for  the  immedi- 
ate purpose  of  pleasure  through  the  medium  of  beauty ;  herein 
contra-distinguishing  poetry  from  science,  the  immediate  object 
and  primary  purpose  of  which  is  tmtb  and  possible  utility."  See 
also  the  similar  passage  on  p.  108.] 


10  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

those  of  prose;  the  same  human  blood  circulates  through 
the  veins  of  them  both. 

If  it  be  affirmed  that  rhyme  and  metrical  arrangement 
of  themselves  constitute  a  distinction  which  overturns 
what  has  just  been  said  on  the  strict  affinity  of  metrical 
language  with  that  of  prose,  and  paves  the  way  for  other 
artificial  distinctions  which  the  mind  voluntarily  admits, 
I  answer  that  the  language  of  such  poetry  as  is  here  recom- 
mended is,  as  far  as  is  possible,  a  selection  of  the  lan- 
guage really  spoken  by  men;  that  this  selection,  wherever 
it  is  made  with  true  taste  and  feeling,  will  of  itself  form 
a  distinction  far  greater  than  would  at  first  be  imag- 
ined, and  will  entirely  separate  the  composition  from  the 
vulgarity  and  meanness  of  ordinary  life;  and,  if  meter  be 
superadded  thereto,  I  believe  that  a  dissimilitude  will  be 
produced  altogether  sufficient  for  the  gratification  of  a 
rational  mind.  What  other  distinction  would  we  have? 
Whence  is  it  to  come?  And  where  is  it  to  exist?  Not, 
surely,  where  the  poet  speaks  through  the  mouths  of  his 
characters:  it  cannot  be  necessary  here,  either  for  eleva- 
tion of  style,  or  any  of  its  supposed  ornaments:  for,  if 
the  poet's  subject  be  judiciously  chosen,  it  will  naturally, 
and  upon  fit  occasion,  lead  him  to  passions  the  language 
of  which,  if  selected  truly  and  judiciously,  must  neces- 
sarily be  dignified  and  variegated,  and  alive  with  meta- 
phors and  figures.  I  forbear  to  speak  of  an  incongruity 
which  would  shock  the  intelligent  reader,  should  the  poet 
interweave  any  foreign  splendor  of  his  own  with  that  which 
the  passion  naturally  suggests :  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that 
such  addition  is  unnecessary.  And  surely  it  is  more 
probable  that  those  passages  which  with  propriety  abound 
with  metaphors  and  figures  will  have  their  due  effect, 
if,  upon  other  occasions  where  the  passions  are  of  a 
milder  character,  the  style  also  be  subdued  and  tem- 
perate. 

But  as  the  pleasure  which  I  hope  to  give  by  the  poems 
now  presented  to  the  reader  must  depend  entirely  on  just 
notions  upon  this  subject,  and  as  it  is  in  itself  of  high 
importance  to  our  taste  and  moral  feelings,  I  cannot 
content  myself  with  these  detached  remarks.  And  if,  in 
what  I  am  about  to  say,  it  shall  appear  to  some  that  n)y 
labor  is  unnecessary,  and  that  I  am  like  a  man  fighting  a 


WOEDS  WORTH  tl 

battle  ■without  enemies,  such  persons  may  be  reminded 
that,  whatever  be  the  language  outwardly  holden  by  men, 
a  practical  faith  in  the  opinions  which  I  am  wishing  to 
establish  is  almost  unknown.  If  my  conclusions  are  ad- 
mitted, and  carried  as  far  as  they  must  be  carried  if  ad- 
mitted at  all,  our  judgments  concerning  the  works  of  the 
greatest  poets  both  ancient  and  modem  will  be  far  dif- 
ferent from  what  they  are  at  present,  both  when  we 
praise,  and  when  we  censure;  and  our  moral  feelings  in- 
fluencing and  influenced  by  these  judgments  will,  I  be- 
lieve, be  corrected  and  purified. 

Taking  up  the  subject,  then,  upon  general  grounds,  let 
me  ask,  what  is  meant  by  the  word  Poet?  What  is  a 
poet?  To  whom  does  he  address  himself?  And  what 
language  is  to  be  expected  from  him  ? — He  is  a  man  speak- 
ing to  men:  a  man,  it  is  true,  endowed  with  more  lively 
sensibility,  more  enthusiasm  and  tenderness,  who  has  a 
greater  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  a  more  com- 
prehensive soul,  than  are  supposed  to  be  common  among 
mankind;  a  man  pleased  with  his  own  passions  and  voli- 
tions, and  who  rejoices  more  than  other  men  in  the  spirit 
of  life  that  is  in  him;  delighting  to  contemplate  similar 
volitions  and  passions  as  manifested  in  the  goings-on  of 
the  universe,  and  habitually  impelled  to  create  them  where 
he  does  not  find  them.  To  these  qualities  he  has  added 
a  disposition  to  be  affected  more  than  other  men  by  ab- 
sent things  as  if  they  were  present;  an  ability  of  conjur- 
ing up  in  himself  passions  which  are  indeed  far  from 
being  the  same  as  those  produced  by  real  events,  yet 
(especially  in  those  parts  of  the  general  sympathy  which 
are  pleasing  and  delightful)  do  more  nearly  resemble  the 
passions  produced  by  real  events  than  anything  which, 
ftom  the  motions  of  their  own  minds  merely,  other  men 
are  accustomed  to  feel  in  themselves: — whence,  and  from 
practice,  he  has  acquired  a  greater  readiness  and  power 
in  expressing  what  he  thinks  and  feels,  and  especially 
those  thoughts  and  feelings  which,  by  his  own  choice, 
or  from  the  structure  of  his  own  mind,  arise  in  him  with- 
out immediate  external  excitement. 

But  whatever  portion  of  this  faculty  we  may  suppose 
even  the  greatest  poet  to  possess,  there  cannot  be  a  doubt 
that  the  language  which  it  will  sugjjest  to  him  must  often, 


12  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

in  liveliness  and  truth,  fall  short  of  that  which  is  uttered 
by  men  in  real  life  under  the  actual  pressure  of  those 
passions,  certain  shadows  of  which  the  poet  thus  pro- 
duces, or  feels  to  be  produced,  in  himself. 

However  exalted  a  notion  we  would  wish  to  cherish  of 
the  character  of  a  poet,  it  is  obvious  that  while  he  de- 
scribes and  imitates  pa"?ions,  his  employment  is  in  some 
degree  mechanical,  compared  with  the  freedom  and  power 
of  real  and  substantial  action  and  suffering.  So  that  it 
will  be  the  wish  of  the  poet  to  bring  his  feelings  near  to 
those  of  the  persons  whose  feelings  he  describes, — nay, 
for  short  spaces  of  time,  perhaps,  to  let  himself  slip  into 
an  entire  delusion,  and  even  confound  and  identify  his 
own  feelings  with  theirs;  modifying  only  the  language 
which  is  thus  suggested  to  him  by  a  consideration  that 
he  describes  for  a  particular  purpose,  that  of  giving  pleas- 
ure. Here,  then,  he  will  apply  the  principle  of  selection 
which  has  been  already  insisted  upon.  He  will  depend 
upon  this  for  removing  what  would  otherwise  be  painful 
or  disgusting  in  the  passion;  he  will  feel  that  there  is 
no  necessity  to  trick  out  or  to  elevate  nature:  and,  the 
more  industriously  he  applies  this  principle,  the  deeper 
will  be  his  faith  that  no  words  which  his  fancy  or  imag- 
ination can  suggest  will  be  to  be  compared  with  those 
which  are  the  emanations  of  reality  and  truth. 

But  it  may  be  said  by  those  who  do  not  object  to  the 
general  spirit  of  these  remarks,  that,  as  it  is  impossible 
for  the  poet  to  produce  upon  all  occasions  language  as 
exquisitely  fitted  for  the  passion  as  that  which  the  real 
passion  itself  suggests,  it  is  proper  that  he  should  con- 
sider himself  as  in  the  situation  of  a  translator,  who 
does  not  scruple  to  substitute  excellencies  of  another  kind 
for  those  which  are  unattainable  by  him,  and  endeavors 
occasionally  to  surpass  his  original,  in  order  to  make  some 
amends  for  the  general  inferiority  to  which  he  feels  that 
he  must  submit.  But  this  would  be  to  encourage  idle- 
ness and  unmanly  despair.  Further,  it  is  the  language 
of  men  who  speak  of  what  they  do  not  understand;  who 
talk  of  poetry  as  of  a  matter  of  amusement  and  idle 
pleasure;  who  will  converse  with  us  as  gravely  about  a 
taste  for  poetry,  as  they  express  it,  as  if  it  were  a  thing 
as  indifferent  as  a  taste  for  rope-dancing,  or  Frontiniac 


WORDSWOKTH  18 

or  Sherry.''  Aristotle,  I  have  been  told,  has  said  that 
poetry  is  the  most  philosophic  of  all  writing  :*  it  is  so :  its 
object  is  truth,  not  individual  and  local,  but  general,  and 
operative ;  not  standing  upon  external  testimony,  but  car- 
ried alive  into  the  heart  by  passion;  truth  which  is  its 
own  testimony,  which  gives  competence  and  confidence  to 
the  tribunal  to  which  it  appeals^  ^.nd  receives  them  from 
the  same  tribunal.  Poetry  is  the  image  of  man  and  na- 
ture. The  obstacles  which  stand  in  the  way  of  the  fidel- 
ity of  the  biographer  and  historian,  and  of  their  conse- 
quent utility,  are  incalculably  greater  than  those  which 
are  to  be  encountered  by  the  poet  who  comprehends  the 
dignity  of  his  art.  The  poet  writes  under  one  restric- 
tion only,  namely,  the  necessity  of  giving  immediate 
pleasure  to  a  human  being  possessed  of  that  information 
which  may  be  expected  from  him,  not  as  a  lawyer,  a  physi- 
cian, a  mariner,  an  astronomer,  or  a  natural  philosopher, 
but  as  a  man.  Except  this  one  restriction,  there  is  no 
object  standing  between  the  poet  and  the  image  of  things ; 
between  this,  and  the  biographer  and  historian,  there  are 
a  thousand. 

Nor  let  this  necessity  of  producing  immediate  pleasure 
be  considered  as  a  degradation  of  the  poet's  art.  It  is 
far  otherwise.  It  is  an  acknowledgment  of  the  beauty 
of  the  universe,  an  acknowledgment  the  more  sincere,  be- 
cause not  formal,  but  indirect;  it  is  a  task  light  and  easy 
to  him  who  looks  at  the  world  in  the  spirit  of  love:  fur- 
ther, it  is  a  homage  paid  to  the  native  and  naked  dignity 
of  man,  to  the  grand  elementary  principle  of  pleasure,  by 
which  he  knows,  and  feels,  and  lives,  and  moves.  We  have 
no  sympathy  but  what  is  propagated  by  pleasure :  I  would 
not  be  misunderstood;  but  wherever  we  sympathize  with 
pain,  it  will  be  found  that  the  sympathy  is  produced  and 

» In  his  "Essay  Supplementary  to  the  Preface"  Wordsworth 
further  developed  his  objection  to  the  term  tatte.  "It  Is  a  meta- 
phor taken  from  a  paaaive  sense  of  the  human  body,  and  trans- 
ferred to  things  which  are  In  their  essence  not  passive, — to  intel- 
lectual acts  and  operations.  .  .  .  The  profound  and  universal  in 
thought  and  imagination, — or,  in  ordinary  language,  the  pathetic 
and  the  sublime, — are  neither  of  them,  accurately  speaking,  objects 
of  a  faculty  which  could  ever  without  a  sinking  in  the  spirit  of 
nations  have  been  designated  by  the  metaphor  taate." 

•  "Poetry  Is  a  more  philosophical  and  a  higher  thing  than  his- 
tory :  for  poetry  tends  to  express  the  universal,  history  the  par- 
tlcQlar."     (Aristotle's  Poetic*,  chap,  ix.) 


14  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

carried  on  by  subtle  combinations  with  pleasure.  We 
have  no  knowledge,  that  is,  no  general  principles  drawn 
from  the  contemplation  of  particular  facts,  but  what  has 
been  built  up  by  pleasure,  and  exists  in  us  by  pleasure 
alone.  The  man  of  science,  the  chemist  and  mathema- 
tician, whatever  difficulties  and  disgusts  they  may  have 
had  to  struggle  with,  know  and  feel  this.  However  pain- 
ful may  be  the  objects  with  which  the  anatomist's  knowl- 
edge is  connected,  he  feels  that  his  knowledge  is  pleas- 
ure; and  where  he  has  no  pleasure  he  has  no  knowledge. 
What  then  does  the  poet?  He  considers  man  and  the  ob- 
jects that  surround  him  ls  acting  and  reacting  upon  each 
other,  so  as  to  produce  an  infinite  complexity  of  pain  and 
pleasure;  he  considers  man  in  his  own  nature  and  in  his 
ordinary  life  as  contemplating  this  with  a  certain  quan- 
tity of  immediate  knowledge,  with  certain  convictions, 
intuitions,  and  deductions,  which  from  habit  acquire  the 
quality  of  intuitions;  he  considers  him  as  looking  upon 
this  complex  scene  of  ideas  and  sensations,  and  finding 
everywhere  objects  that  immediately  excite  in  him  sympa- 
thies which,  from  the  necessities  of  his  nature,  are  ac- 
companied by  an  over-balance  of  enjoyment. 

To  this  knowledge  which  all  men  carry  about  with 
them,  and  to  these  sympathies  in  which,  without  any 
other  discipline  than  that  of  our  daily  life,  we  are  fitted 
to  take  delight,  the  poet  principally  directs  his  attention. 
He  considers  man  and  nature  as  essentially  adapted  to 
each  other,  and  the  mind  of  man  as  naturally  the  mirror 
of  the  fairest  and  most  interesting  properties  of  nature. 
And  thus  the  poet,  prompted  by  this  feeling  of  pleasure, 
which  accompanies  him  through  the  whole  course  of  his 
studies,  converses  with  general  nature,  with  affections  akin 
to  those  which,  through  labor  and  length  of  time,  the  man 
of  science  has  raised  up  in  himself,  by  conversing  with 
those  particular  parts  of  nature  which  are  the  objects 
of  his  studies.  The  knowledge  both  of  the  poet  and  the 
man  of  science  is  pleasure;  but  the  knowledge  of  the 
one  cleaves  to  us  as  a  necessary  part  of  our  existence,  our 
natural  and  unalienable  inheritance;  the  other  is  a  per- 
sonal and  individual  acquisition,  slow  to  come  to  us,  and 
by  no  habitual  and  direct  sympathy  connecting  us  with 
our  fellow-beings.     The  man  of  science  seeks  truth  as  a 


WOKDSWORTH  15 

remote  and  unknown  benefactor;  he  cherishes  and  loves 
it  in  his  solitude:  the  poet,  singing  a  song  in  which  all 
human  beings  join  with  him,  rejoices  in  the  presence  of 
truth  as  our  visible  friend  and  hourly  companion. 
Poetry  is  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all  knowledge;  it 
is  the  impassioned  expression  which  is  in  the  countenance 
of  all  science.  Emphatically  may  it  be  said  of  the  poet, 
as  Shakespeare  hath  said  of  man,  that  "he  looks  before 
and  after."  ^  He  is  the  rock  of  defence  for  human  na- 
ture; an  upholder  and  preserver,  carrying  everywhere 
with  him  relationship  and  love.  In  spite  of  difference  of 
soil  and  climate,  of  language  and  manners,  of  laws  and 
customs:  in  spite  of  things  silently  gone  out  of  mind, 
and  things  violently  destroyed;  the  poet  binds  together 
by  passion  and  knowledge  the  vast  empire  of  human  soci- 
ety, as  it  is  spread  over  the  whole  earth,  and  over  all  time. 
The  objects  of  the  poet's  thoughts  are  everywhere; 
though  the  eyes  and  senses  of  man  are,  it  is  true,  his  favor- 
ite guides,  yet  he  will  follow  wheresoever  he  can  find  an 
atmosphere  of  sensation  in  which  to  move  his  wings. 
Poetry  is  the  first  and  last  of  all  knowledge — it  is  as  im- 
mortal as  the  heart  of  man.  If  the  labors  of  men  of  sci- 
ence should  ever  create  any  material  revolution,  direct  or 
indirect,  in  our  condition,  and  in  the  impressions  which 
we  habitually  receive,  the  poet  will  sleep  then  no  more 
than  at  present;  he  will  be  ready  to  follow  the  steps  of 
the  man  of  science,  not  only  in  those  general  indirect 
effects,  but  he  will  be  at  his  side,  carrying  sensation  into 
the  midst  of  the  objects  of  the  science  itself.  The  re- 
motest discoveries  of  the  chemist,  the  botanist,  or  miner- 
alogist, will  be  as  proper  objects  of  the  poet's  art  as  any 
upon  which  it  can  be  employed,  if  the  time  should  ever 
come  when  these  things  shall  be  familiar  to  us,  and  tho 
relations  under  which  they  are  contemplated  by  the  fol- 
lowers of  these  respective  sciences  shall  be  manifestly  and 
palpably  material  to  us  as  enjoying  and  suffering  be- 
ings. If  the  time  should  ever  come  when  what  is  now 
called  science,  thus  familiarized  to  men,  shall  be  ready  to 
put  on,  as  it  were,  a  form  of  flesh  and  blood,  the  poet  will 
lend  his  divine  spirit  to  aid  the  transfiguration,  and  will 

'Hamlet.  IV,  Iv,  37. 


16  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

welcome  the  being  thus  produced,  as  a  dear  and  genuine 
inmate  of  the  household  of  man. — It  is  not,  then,  to  be 
supposed  that  any  one  who  holds  that  sublime  notion  of 
poetry  which  I  have  attempted  to  convey,  will  break  in 
upon  the  sanctity  and  truth  of  his  pictures  by  transitory 
and  accidental  ornaments,  and  endeavor  to  excite  ad- 
miration of  himself  by  arts  the  necessity  of  which  must 
manifestly  depend  upon  the  assumed  meanness  of  his 
subject. 

What  has  been  thus  far  said  applies  to  poetry  in  gen- 
eral, but  especially  to  those  parts  of  composition  where 
the  poet  speaks  through  the  mouths  of  his  characters; 
and  upon  this  point  it  appears  to  authorize  the  conclu- 
sion that  there  are  few  persons  of  good  sense  who  would 
not  allow  that  the  dramatic  parts  of  composition  are  de- 
fective, in  proportion  as  they  deviate  from  the  real  lan- 
guage of  nature,  and  are  colored  by  a  diction  of  the  poet's 
own,  either  peculiar  to  him  as  an  individual  poet  or  be- 
longing simply  to  poets  in  general, — to  a  body  of  men 
who,  from  the  circumstance  of  their  compositions  being 
in  meter,  it  is  expected  will  employ  a  particular  language. 

It  is  not,  then,  in  the  dramatic  parts  of  composition 
that  we  look  for  this  distinction  of  language;  but  still  it 
may  be  proper  and  necessary  where  the  poet  speaks  to 
us  in  his  own  person  and  character.  To  this  I  answer 
by  referring  fhe  reader  to  the  description  before  given  of 
a  poet.  Among  the  qualities  there  enumerated  as  prin- 
cipally conducing  to  form  a  poet,  is  implied  nothing  dif- 
fering in  kind  from  other  men,  but  only  in  degree.  The 
sum  of  what  "was  said  is,  that  the  poet  is  chiefly  distin- 
guished from  other  men  by  a  greater  promptness  to  think 
and  feel  without  immediate  external  excitement,  and  a 
greater  power  in  expressing  such  thoughts  and  feelings  as 
are  produced  in  him  in  that  manner.  But  these  pas- 
sions and  thoughts  and  feelings  are  the  general  passions 
and  thoughts  and  feelings  of  men.  And  with  what  are 
they  connected  ?  Undoubtedly  with  our  moral  sentiments 
and  animal  sensations,  and  with  the  causes  which  excite 
these;  with  the  operations  of  the  elements,  and  the  ap- 
pearances of  the  visible  universe;  with  storm  and  sun- 
shine, with  the  revolutions  of  the  seasons,  with  cold  and 
^eat,  with  loss  of  friends  and  kindred,  with  injuries  and 


WOEDSWORTH  17 

resentments,  gratitude  and  hope,  with  fear  and  sorrow. 
These,  and  the  like,  are  the  sensations  and  objects  which 
the  poet  describes,  as  they  are  the  sensations  of  other 
men,  and  the  objects  which  interest  them.  The  poet 
thinks  and  feels  in  the  spirit  of  human  passions.  How, 
then,  can  his  language  differ  in  any  material  degree  from 
that  of  all  other  men  who  feel  vividly  and  see  clearly? 
It  might  be  proved  that  it  is  impossible.  But  supposing 
that  this  were  not  the  case,  the  poet  might  then  be  al- 
lowed to  use  a  peculiar  language  when  expressing  his 
feelings  for  his  own  gratification,  or  that  of  men  like 
himself.  But  poets  do  not  write  for  poets  alone,  but  for 
men.  Unless,  therefore,  we  are  advocates  for  that  ad- 
miration which  subsists  upon  ignorance,  and  that  pleas- 
ure which  arises  from  hearing  what  we  do  not  under- 
stand, the  poet  must  descend  from  this  supposed  height; 
and,  in  order  to  excite  rational  sympathy,  he  must  ex- 
press himself  as  other  men  express  themselves.  To  this 
it  may  be  added  that  while  he  is  only  selecting  from  the 
real  language  of  men,  or,  which  amounts  to  the  same 
thing,  composing  accurately  in  the  spirit  of  such  selec- 
tion, he  is  treading  upon  safe  ground,  and  we  know  what 
we  are  to  expect  from  him.  Our  feelings  are  the  same 
with  respect  to  meter;  for,  as  it  may  be  proper  to  remind 
the  reader,  the  distinction  of  meter  is  regular  and  uni- 
form, and  not,  like  that  which  is  produced  by  what  is 
Tisually  called  poetic  diction,  arbitrary,  and  subject  to  in- 
finite caprices  upon  which  no  calculation  whatever  can 
be  made.  In  the  one  case,  the  reader  is  utterly  at  the 
mercy  of  the  poet,  respecting  what  imagery  or  diction 
he  may  choose  to  connect  with  the  passion;  whereas  in 
the  other,  the  meter  obeys  certain  laws,  to  which  the  poet 
and  reader  both  willingly  submit  because  they  are  cer- 
tain, and  because  no  interference  is  made  by  them  with 
the  passion,  but  such  as  the  concurring  testimony  of  ages 
has  shown  to  heighten  and  improve  the  pleasure  which  co- 
exists with  it. 

It  will  now  be  proper  to  answer  an  obvious  question, 
namely.  Why,  professing  these  opinions,  have  I  written 
in  verse?  To  this,  in  addition  to  such  answer  as  is  in- 
cluded in  what  has  been  already  said,  I  reply,  in  the  first 
place.  Because,  however  I  may  have  restricted  myself. 


18  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

there  is  still  left  open  to  me  what  confessedly  constitutes 
the  most  valuable  object  of  all  writing,  whether  in  prose 
or  verse — the  great  and  imiversal  passions  of  men,  the 
most  general  and  interesting  of  their  occupations,  and 
the  entire  world  of  nature  before  me — to  supply  endless 
combinations  of  forms  and  imagery.  Now,  supposing  for 
a  moment  that  whatever  is  interesting  in  these  objects 
may  be  as  vividly  described  in  prose,  why  should  I  be 
condemned  for  attempting  to  superadd  to  such  descrip- 
tion the  charm  which,  by  the  consent  of  all  nations,  is 
acknowledged  to  exist  in  metrical  language?  To  this,  by 
such  as  are  yet  unconvinced,  it  may  be  answered  that  a 
very  small  part  of  the  pleasure  given  by  poetry  depends 
upon  the  meter,  and  that  it  is  injudicious  to  write  in 
meter,  unless  it  be  accompanied  with  the  other  artificial 
distinctions  of  style  with  which  meter  is  usually  accom- 
panied, and  that,  by  such  deviation,  more  will  be  lost 
from  the  shock  which  will  thereby  be  given  to  the  read- 
er's associations  than  will  .be  counterbalanced  by  any 
pleasure  which  he  can  derive  from  the  general  power  of 
numbers.  In  answer  to  those  who  still  contend  for  the 
necessity  of  accompanying  meter  with  certain  appropri- 
ate colors  of  style  in  order  to  the  accomplishment  of  its 
appropriate  end,  and  who  also,  in  my  opinion,  greatly  un- 
derrate the  power  of  meter  in  itself,  it  might,  perhaps, 
as  far  as  relates  to  these  volumes,  have  been  almost  suf- 
ficient to  observe  that  poems  are  extant,  written  upon 
more  humble  subjects,  and  in  a  still  more  naked  and 
simple  style,  which  have  continued  to  give  pleasure  from 
generation  to  generation.  Now  if  nakedness  and  sim- 
plicity be  a  defect,  the  fact  here  mentioned  affords  a 
strong  presumption  that  poems  somewhat  less  naked  and 
simple  are  capable  of  affording  pleasure  at  the  present 
day;  and  what  I  wished  chiefly  to  attempt,  at  present, 
was  to  justify  myself  for  having  written  under  the  im- 
pression of  this  belief. 

But  various  causes  might  be  pointed  out  why,  when 
the  style  is  manly,  and  the  subject  of  some  importance, 
words  metrically  arranged  will  long  continue  to  impart 
such  a  pleasure  to  mankind  as  he  who  proves  the  extent 
of  that  pleasure  will  be  desirous  to  impart.  The  end  of 
poetry  is  to  produce  excitement  in  co-existence  with  an 


WOEDSWORTH  W 

overbalance  of  pleasure;  but,  by  the  supposition,  excite- 
ment is  an  unusual  and  irregular  state  of  the  mind ;  ideas 
and  feelings  do  not,  in  that  state,  succeed  each  other  in 
accustomed  order.  If  the  words,  however,  by  which  this 
excitement  is  produced  be  in  themselves  powerful,  or  the 
images  and  feelings  have  an  undue  proportion  of  pain 
connected  with  them,  there  is  some  danger  that  the  ex- 
citement may  be  carried  beyond  its  proper  bounds.  Now 
the  co-presence  of  something  regular,  something  to  which 
the  mind  has  been  accustomed  in  various  moods  and  in  a 
less  excited  state,  cannot  but  have  great  efficacy  in  tem- 
pering and  restraining  the  passion  by  an  intertexture  of 
ordinary  feeling,  and  of  feeling  not  strictly  and  neces- 
sarily connected  with  the  passion.  This  is  unquestion- 
ably true;  and  hence,  though  the  opinion  will  at  first 
appear  paradoxical,  from  the  tendency  of  meter  to  di- 
vest language,  in  a  certain  degree,  of  its  reality,  and  thus 
to  throw  a  sort  of  half-consciousness  of  unsubstantial 
existence  over  the  whole  composition,  there  can  be  little 
doubt  but  that  more  pathetic  situations  and  sentiments, 
that  is,  those  which  have  a  greater  proportion  of  pain 
connected  with  them,  may  be  endured  in  metrical  com- 
position, especially  in  rhyme,  than  in  prose.  The  meter 
of  the  old  ballads  is  very  artless,  yet  they  contain  many 
passages  which  would  illustrate  this  opinion ;  and,  I  hope, 
if  the  following  poems  be  attentively  perused,  similar  in- 
stances will  be  found  in  them.  This  opinion,  may  be  fur- 
ther illustrated  by  appealing  to  the  reader's  own  experi- 
ence of  the  reluctance  with  which  he  comes  to  the  re- 
perusal  of  the  distressful  parts  of  Clarissa  Harlowe,  or 
The  Oamesierj}'^  while  Shakespeare's  writings,  in  the  most 
pathetic  scenes,  never  act  upon  us,  as  pathetic,  beyond 
the  bounds  of  pleasure — an  eflfect  which,  in  a  much 
greater  degree  than  might  at  first  be  imagined,  is  to  be 

>•  Claritga,  n  trajdc  novel  by  Rlchardaon,  published  1748 ;  The 
Oametter.  a  domestic  tragedy  by  Edward  Moore,  1753.  With  the 
theory  of  meter  as  relieving  trapic  pain,  compare  a  remark  of 
Goethe's  in  a  letter  to  Schiller  (May  5,  1798),  at  the  time  when 
he  was  composing  Fautt:  "Certain  tragic  scenes  were  written  In 
prose,  but  they  are  quite  intolerable  compared  with  the  others, 
through  their  naturalness  and  strength.  I  am  trying,  therefore, 
to  put  them  into  rhyme,  for  then  the  idea  is  seen  as  If  through 
a  veil,  and  the  direct  impression  of  the  tremendous  material  is 
softened." 


20  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

ascribed  to  small  but  continual  and  regular  impulses  of 
pleasurable  surprise  from  the  metrical  arrangement. — On 
the  other  hand  (what  it  must  be  allowed  will  much  more 
frequently  happen),  if  the  poet's  words  should  be  incom- 
mensurate with  the  passion,  and  inadequate  to  raise  the 
reader  to  a  height  of  desirable  excitement,  then  (unless 
the  poet's  choice  of  his  meter  has  been  grossly  injudi- 
cious) in  the  feelings  of  pleasure  which  the  reader  has 
been  accustomed  to  connect  with  meter  in  general,  and 
in  the  feeling,  whether  cheerful  or  melancholy,  which  he 
has  been  accustomed  to  connect  with  that  particular  move- 
ment of  meter,  there  will  be  found  something  which  will 
greatly  contribute  to  impart  passion  to  the  words,  and 
to  effect  the  complex  end  which  the  poet  proposes  to 
himself. 

If  I  had  undertaken  a  systematic  defence  of  the  theory 
here  maintained,  it  would  have  been  my  duty  to  develop 
the  various  causes  upon  which  the  pleasure  received  from 
metrical  language  depends.  Among  the  chief  of  these 
causes  is  to  be  reckoned  a  principle  which  must  be  well 
known  to  those  who  have  made  any  of  the  arts  the  object 
of  accurate  reflection;  namely,  the  pleasure  which  the 
mind  derives  from  the  perception  of  similitude  in  dis- 
similitude. This  principle  is  the  great  spring  of  the  ac- 
tivity of  our  minds,  and  their  chief  feeder.  From  this 
principle  the  direction  of  the  sexual  appetite,  and  all  the 
passions  connected  with  it,  take  their  origin:  it  is  the 
life  of  our  ordinary  conversation ;  and  upon  the  accuracy 
with  which  similitude  in  dissimilitude,  and  dissimilitude 
in  similitude  are  perceived,  depend  our  taste  and  our 
moral  feelings.  It  would  not  be  a  useless  employment  to 
apply  this  principle  to  the  consideration  of  meter,  and  to 
show  that  meter  is  hence  enabled  to  afford  much  pleasure, 
and  to  point  out  in  what  manner  that  pleasure  is  pro- 
duced. But  my  limits  will  not  permit  me  to  enter  upon 
this  subject,  and  I  must  content  myself  with  a  general 
summary. 

I  have  said  that  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of 
powerful  feelings;  it  takes  its  origin  from  emotion  recol- 
lected in  tranquillity :  the  emotion  is  contemplated  till,  by 
a  species  of  reaction,  the  tranquillity  gradually  disap- 
pears, and  an  emotion,  kindred  to  that  which  was  before 


WORDSWORTH  21 1 

tte  subject  of  contemplation,  is  gradually  produced,  and 
does  itself  actually  exist  in  the  mind.  In  this  mood  suc- 
cessful composition  generally  begins,  and  in  a  mood 
similar  to  this  it  is  carried  on;  but  the  emotion,  of  ■what- 
ever kind,  and  in  whatever  d^ree,  from  various  causes, 
is  qualified  by  various  pleasures,  so  that  in  describing  any 
passions  whatsoever,  which  are  voluntarily  described,  the 
mind  will,  upon  the  whole,  be  in  a  state  of  enjoyment. 
If  Nature  be  thus  cautious  to  preserve  in  a  state  of  en- 
joyment a  being  so  employed,  the  poet  ought  to  profit 
by  the  lesson  held  forth  to  him,  and  ought  especially  to 
take  care  that,  whatever  passions  he  communicates  to  his 
reader,  those  passions,  if  his  reader's  mind  be  sound  and 
vigorous,  should  always  be  accompanied  with  an  over- 
balance of  pleasure.  Now  the  music  of  harmonious  met- 
rical language,  the  sense  of  difficulty  overcome,  and  the 
blind  association  of  pleasure  which  has  been  previously 
received  from  works  of  rhyme  or  meter  of  the  same  or 
similar  construction,  an  indistinct  perception  perpetu- 
ally renewed  of  language  closely  resembling  that  of  real 
life,  and  yet,  in  the  circumstance  of  meter,  differing 
from  it  so  widely — all  these  imperceptibly  make  up  a  com- 
plex feeling  of  delight,  which  is  of  the  most  important 
use  in  tempering  the  painful  feeling  always  found  inter- 
mingled with  powerful  descriptions  of  the  deeper  pas- 
sions. This  effect  is  always  produced  in  pathetic  and  im- 
passioned poetry;  while  in  lighter  compositions  the  ease 
and  gracefulness  with  which  the  poet  manages  his  num- 
bers are  themselves  confessedly  a  principal  source  of  the 
gratification  of  the  reader.  AU  that  it  is  necessary  to 
say,  however,  upon  this  subject,  may  be  effected  by  affirm- 
ing, what  few  persons  will  deny,  that  of  two  descriptions, 
either  of  passions,  manners,  or  characters,  each  of  them 
equally  well  executed,  the  one  in  prose  and  the  other  in 
verse,  the  verse  will  be  read  a  hundred  times  where  the 
prose  is  read  once. 

Having  thus  explained  a  few  of  my  reasons  for  writing 
in  verse,  and  why  I  have  chosen  subjects  from  common 
life,  and  endeavored  to  bring  my  language  near  to  the 
real  language  of  men,  if  I  have  been  too  minute  in  plead- 
ing my  own  cause,  I  have  at  the  same  time  been  treating 
a  subject  of  general  interest;  and  for  this  reason  a  few 


22  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

words  shall  be  added  with  reference  solely  to  these  par- 
ticular poems,  and  to  some  defects  which  will  probably  be 
found  in  them.  I  am  sensible  that  my  associations  must 
have  sometimes  been  particular  instead  of  general,  and 
that,  consequently,  giving  to  things  a  false  importance, 
I  may  have  sometimes  written  upon  unworthy  subjects; 
but  I  am  less  apprehensive  on  this  account,  than  that  my 
language  may  frequently  have  suffered  from  those  arbi- 
trary connections  of  feelings  and  ideas  with  particular 
words  and  phrases,  from  which  no  man  can  altogether 
protect  himself.  Hence  I  have  no  doubt  that,  in  some 
instances,  feelings,  even  of  the  ludicrous,  may  be  given 
to  my  readers  by  expressions  which  appeared  to  me  ten- 
der and  pathetic.  Such  faulty  expressions,  were  I  con- 
vinced they  were  faulty  at  present,  and  that  they  must 
necessarily  continue  to  be  so,  I  would  willingly  take  all 
reasonable  pains  to  correct.  But  it  is  dangerous  to  make 
these  alterations  on  the  simple  authority  of  a  few  indi- 
viduals, or  even  of  certain  classes  of  men;  for  where  the 
understanding  of  an  author  is  not  convinced,  or  his  feel- 
ings altered,  this  cannot  be  done  without  great  injury  to 
himself:  for  his  own  feelings  are  his  stay  and  support; 
and,  if  he  set  them  aside  in  one  instance,  he  may  be  in- 
duced to  repeat  this  act  till  his  mind  shall  lose  all  con- 
fidence in  itself,  and  become  utterly  debilitated.  To  this 
it  may  be  added  that  the  critic  ought  never  to  forget  that 
he  is  himself  exposed  to  the  same  errors  as  the  poet,  and 
perhaps  in  a  much  greater  degree:  for  there  can  be  no 
presumption  in  saying  of  most  readers  that  it  is  not  prob- 
able they  will  be  so  well  acquainted  with  the  various 
stages  of  meaning  through  which  words  have  passed,  or 
with  the  fickleness  or  stability  of  the  relations  of  par- 
ticular ideas  to  each  other;  and,  above  all,  since  they  are 
80  much  less  interested  in  the  subject,  they  may  decide 
lightly  and  carelessly. 

Long  as  the  reader  has  been  detained,  I  hope  he  will 
permit  me  to  caution  him  against  a  mode  of  false  criti- 
cism which  has  been  applied  to  poetry,  in  which  the  lan- 
^age  closely  resembles  that  of  life  and  nature.  Such 
verses  have  been  triumphed  over  in  parodies,  of  which 
Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  is  a  fair  specimen: — 


WOKDSWORTH  28 

I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head 
And  walked  into  the  Strand, 
And  there  I  met  another  man 
Whose  hat  was  in  his  hand." 

Immediately  under  these  lines  let  us  place  one  of  the 
most  justly  admired  stanzas  of  the  "Babes  in  the  Wood."  ^* 

These  pretty  babes  with  hand  in  hand 
Went  wandering  up  and  down; 
But  never  more  they  saw  the  man 
Approaching  from  the  town. 

In  both  these  stanzas  the  words,  and  the  order  of  the 
words,  in  no  respect  differ  from  the  most  unimpassioned 
conversation.  There  are  words  m  both,  for  example,  "the 
Strand,"  and  "the  town,"  connected  with  none  but  the 
most  familiar  ideas;  yet  the  one  stanza  we  admit  as  ad- 
mirable, and  the  other  as  a  fair  example  of  the  superla- 
tively contemptible.  Whence  arises  this  difference  ?  Not 
from  the  meter,  not  from  the  language,  not  from  the 
order  of  the  words ;  but  the  matter  expressed  in  Dr.  John- 
son's stanza  is  contemptible.  The  proper  method  of  treat- 
ing trivial  and  simple  verses  to  which  Dr.  Johnson's 
stanza  would  be  a  fair  parallelism,  is  not  to  say,  This  is  a 
bad  kind  of  poetry,  or  This  is  not  poetry ;  but,  This  wants 
sense;  it  is  neither  interesting  in  itself,  nor  can  lead  to 
anything  interesting ;  the  images  neither  originate  in  that 
sane  state  of  feeling  which  arises  out  of  thought,  nor  can 
excite  thought  or  feeling  in  the  reader.  This  is  the  only 
sensible  manner  of  dealing  with  such  verses.  Why  trouble 
yourself  about  the  species  till  you  have  previously  de- 
cided upon  the  genus?  Why  take  pains  to  prove  that  an 
ape  is  not  a  Newton,  when  it  is  self-evident  that  he  is 
not  a  man? 

One  request  I  must  make  of  my  reader,  which  is,  that 
in  judging  these  poems  he  would  decide  by  his  own  feel- 
ings genuinely,  and  not  by  reflection  upon  what  will  prob- 
ably be  the  judgment  of  others.     How  common  is  it  to 

"  This  stanza  was  recorded  In  the  Memoirs  of  Joseph  Cradock, 
as  having  been  composed  by  Dr.  Johnson  In  imitation  of  the  style 
of  Percy's  ballad,  "The  Hermit  of  Warkworth." 

"  A  popular  ballad,  of  the  comparatively  modern  type,  whicll 
Addison  had  highly  praised  in  the  85th  Spectator. 


24  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

hear  a  person  say,  I  myself  do  not  object  to  this  style 
of  composition,  or  this  or  that  expression,  but  to  such 
and  such  classes  of  people  it  will  appear  mean  or  ludi- 
crous! This  mode  of  criticism,  so  destructive  of  all 
sound  unadulterated  judgment,  is  almost  universal:  let 
the  reader  then  abide,  independently,  by  his  own  feelings, 
and,  if  he  finds  himself  affected,  let  him  not  suffer  such 
conjectures  to  interfere  with  his  pleasure. 

If  an  author,  by  any  single  composition,  has  impressed 
us  with  respect  for  his  talents,  it  is  useful  to  consider 
this  as  affording  a  presumption  that  on  other  occasions, 
where  we  have  been  displeased,  he  nevertheless  may  not 
have  written  ill  or  absurdly;  and  further,  to  give  him 
80  much  credit  for  this  one  composition  as  may  induce 
us  to  review  what  has  displeased  us  with  more  care  than 
we  should  otherwise  have  bestowed  upon  it.  This  is  not 
only  an  act  of  justice,  but,  in  our  decisions  upon  poetry 
especially,  may  conduce  in  a  high  degree  to  the  improve- 
ment of  our  own  taste;  for  an  accurate  taste  in  poetry, 
and  in  all  the  other  arts,  as  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  has  ob- 
served,^' is  an  acquired  talent,  which  can  only  be  produced 
by  thought  and  a  long-continued  intercourse  with  the  best 
models  of  composition.  This  is  mentioned,  not  with  so 
ridiculous  a  purpose  as  to  prevent  the  most  inexperienced 
reader  from  judging  for  himself  (I  have  already  said  that 
I  wish  him  to  judge  for  himself),  but  merely  to  temper 
the  rashness  of  decision,  and  to  suggest  that,  if  poetry 
be  a  subject  on  which  much  time  has  not  been  bestowed, 
the  judgment  may  be  erroneous ;  and  that,  in  many  cases, 
it  necessarily  will  be  so. 

Nothing  would,  I  know,  have  so  effectually  contributed 
to  further  the  end  which  I  have  in  view,  as  to  have  shown 
of  what  kind  the  pleasure  is,  and  how  that  pleasure  is 
produced,  which  is  confessedly  produced  by  metrical  com- 
position essentially  different  from  that  which  I  have  here 
endeavored  to  recommend :  for  the  reader  will  say  that  he 
has  been  pleased  by  such  composition;  and  what  more 
can  be  done  for  him?  The  power  of  any  art  is  limited; 
and  he  will  suspect  that,  if  it  be  proposed  to  furnish  him 
with  new  friends,  that  can  be  only  upon  condition  of  his 

"For  Reynolds's  account  of  Taste,  see  the  seventh  of  his  Dis- 
courses before  the  Royal  Academy. 


WOKDSWOKTH  26 

abandoning  his  old  friends.  Besides,  as  I  have  said,  the 
reader  is  himself  conscious  of  the  pleasure  which  he  has 
received  from  such  composition,  composition  to  which  he 
has  peculiarly  attached  the  endearing  name  of  poetry; 
and  all  men  feel  an  habitual  gratitude,  and  something 
of  an  honorable  bigotry,  for  the  objects  which  have  long 
continued  to  please  them :  we  not  only  wish  to  be  pleased, 
but  to  be  pleased  in  that  particular  way  in  which  we  have 
been  accustomed  to  be  pleased.  There  is  in  these  feel- 
ings enough  to  resist  a  host  of  arguments;  and  I  should 
be  the  less  able  to  combat  them  successfully,  as  I  am 
willing  to  allow  that,  in  order  entirely  to  enjoy  the  poetry 
which  I  am  recommending,  it  would  be  necessary  to  give 
up  much  of  what  is  ordinarily  enjoyed.  But,  would  my 
limits  have  permitted  me  to  point  out  how  this  pleasure 
is  produced,  many  obstacles  might  have  been  removed, 
and  the  reader  assisted  in  perceiving  that  the  powers  of 
language  are  not  so  limited  as  he  may  suppose;  and  that 
it  is  possible  for  poetry  to  give  other  enjoyments,  of  a 
purer,  more  lasting,  and  more  exquisite  nature.  This 
part  of  the  subject  has  not  been  altogether  neglected, 
but  it  has  not  been  so  much  my  present  aim  to  prove  that 
the  interest  excited  by  some  other  kinds  of  poetry  is  less 
vivid,  and  less  worthy  of  the  nobler  powers  of  the  mind, 
as  to  offer  reasons  for  presuming  that,  if  my  purpose 
were  fulfilled,  a  species  of  poetry  would  be  produced  which 
is  genuine  poetry,  in  its  nature  well  adapted  to  interest 
mankind  permanently,  and  likewise  important  in  the  mul- 
tiplicity and  quality  of  its  moral  relations. 

From  what  has  been  said,  and  from  a  perusal  of  tlie 
poems,  the  reader  will  be  able  clearly  to  perceive  the  ob- 
ject which  I  had  in  view:  he  will  determine  how  far  it 
has  been  attained;  and,  what  is  a  much  more  important 
question,  whether  it  be  worth  attaining:  and  upon  the 
decision  of  these  two  questions  will  rest  my  claim  to  the 
approbation  of  the  public. 


86  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

LETTEE  TO  JOHN  WILSON 
William  Wordsworth 

[In  May,  1802,  John  Wilson,  then  only  seventeen  years  of 
age,  wrote  an  interesting  letter  to  Wordsworth,  with  whom 
he  had  no  personal  acquaintance,  in  praise  of  the  Lyrical 
Ballads.  By  adhering  "strictly  to  natural  feelings,"  and  de- 
scribing "what  comes  within  the  range  of  every  person's  ob- 
servation," Wordsworth  (wrote  Wilson)  had  "surpassed  every 
Eoet  both  of  ancient  and  modern  times."  To  a  few  poems, 
owever,  he  objected  on  tlie  ground  that  "no  feeling  .  .  . 
ought  to  become  the  subject  of  poetry,  that  does  not  please"; 
and  in  particular  he  instanced  "The  Idiot  Boy."  "The  af- 
fection of  Betty  Foy  has  nothing  in  it  to  excite  interest.  It 
exhibits  merely  the  effects  of  that  instinctive  feeling  inherent 
in  the  constitution  of  every  animal.  The  excessive  fondness 
of  the  mother  disgusts  us,  and  prevents  us  from  sympathizing 
with  her.  We  are  unable  to  enter  into  her  feelings;  we  can- 
not conceive  ourselves  actuated  by  the  same  feelings,  and 
consequently  take  little  or  no  interest  in  her  situation.  .  .  . 
To  me  it  appears  almost  unnatural,  that  a  person  in  a  state 
of  complete  idiotism  should  excite  the  warmest  feelings  of 
attachment  in  the  breast  even  of  his  mother.  Tliis  much  I 
know,  that  among  all  the  people  ever  I  knew  to  have  read 
this  poem,  I  never  met  one  who  did  not  rise  rather  displeased 
from  the  perusal  of  it,  and  the  only  cause  I  could  assign  for 
it  was  the  one  now  mentioned.  ,  .  .  You  never  deviate  from 
nature;  in  you  that  would  be  impossible;  but  in  this  case  you 
have  delineated  feelings  which,  though  natural,  do  not  please, 
but  which  create  a  certain  degree  of  disgust  and  contempt." 
(See  the  whole  letter  in  Knight's  Life  of  Word»worth,  i,  390- 
97.)  The  following  selection  is  that  portion  of  Wordsworth's 
reply  which  has  to  do  with  his  theory  of  poetry  and  Wilson's 
objections.] 

.  .  .  You  begin  what  you  say  upon  the  "Idiot  Boy" 
with  this  observation,  that  nothing  is  a  fit  subject  for 
poetry  which  does  not  please.  But  here  follows  a  ques- 
tion, Does  not  please  whom  ?  Some  have  little  knowledge 
of  natural  imagery  of  any  kind,  and,  of  course,  little  rel- 
ish for  it;  some  are  disgusted  with  the  very  mention  of 
the  words  pastoral  poetry,  sheep  or  shepherds.  Some  can- 
not tolerate  a  poem  with  a  ghost  or  any  supernatural 
agency  in  it;  others  would  shrink  from  an  animated  de- 


WORDSWORTH  9ft 

scription  of  the  pleasures  of  love,  as  from  a  thing  carnal 
and  libidinous.  Some  cannot  bear  to  see  delicate  and 
refined  feelings  ascribed  to  men  in  low  conditions  of  soci- 
ety, because  their  vanity  and  self-love  tell  them  that 
these  belong  only  to  themselves,  and  men  like  them- 
selves in  dress,  station,  and  way  of  life;  others  are  dis- 
gusted with  the  naked  language  of  some  of  the  most 
interesting  passions  of  men,  because  either  it  is  indeli- 
cate, or  gross,  or  vulgar.  Many  fine  ladies  could  not  bear 
certain  expressions  in  "The  Mother"  and  "The  Thorn," 
and,  as  in  the  instance  of  Adam  Smith, — who,  we  are 
told,  could  not  endure  the  ballad  of  "Clym  of  the  Clough," 
— because  the  author  had  not  written  like  a  gentleman. 
Then  there  are  professional  and  national  prejudices  for 
evermore.  Some  take  no  interest  in  the  description  of 
a  particular  passion  or  quality,  as  love  of  solitariness,  we 
will  say,  genial  activity  of  fancy,  love  of  nature,  re- 
ligion, and  so  forth,  because  they  have  [little  or]  nothing 
of  it  in  themselves;  and  so  on  without  end.  I  return  then 
to  [the]  question:  "Please  whom?  or  what?"  I  answer. 
Human  Nature  as  it  has  been  [and  ever]  will  be.  But 
where  are  we  to  find  the  best  measure  of  this  ?  I  answer, 
from  within;  by  stripping  our  own  hearts  naked,  and 
by  looking  out  of  ourselves  to  those  men  who  lead  the 
simplest  lives,  and  most  according  to  Nature;  men  who 
have  never  known  false  refinements,  wayward  and  arti- 
ficial desires,  false  criticisms,  effeminate  habits  of  think- 
ing and  feeling,  or  who,  having  known  these  things,  have 
outgrown  them.  This  latter  class  is  the  most  to  be  de- 
pended upon,  but  it  is  very  small  in  number. 

People  in  our  rank  of  life  are  perpetually  falling  into 
one  sad  mistake,  namely,  that  of  supposing  that  Human 
Nature  and  the  persons  they  associate  with  are  one  and 
the  same  thing.  Whom  do  we  generally  associate  with? 
Gentlemen,  persons  of  fortune,  professional  men,  ladies, 
persons  who  can  afford  to  buy  or  can  easily  procure  books 
of  half-a-guinea  price,  hot-pressed,  and  printed  upon  su- 
perfine paper.  These  persons  are,  it  is  true,  a  part  of 
Human  Nature,  but  we  err  lamentably  if  we  suppose  them 
to  be  fair  representatives  of  the  vast  mass  of  human  ex- 
istence. And  yet  few  ever  consider  books  but  with  ref- 
erence to  their  power  of  pleasing  these  persons,  and  men 


28  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

of  a  higher  rank;  few  descend  lower,  among  cottages  and 
fields,  and  among  children.  A  man  must  have  done  this 
habitually  before  his  judgment  upon  "The  Idiot  Boy" 
would  be  in  any  way  decisive  with  me.  I  know  I  have 
done  this  myself  habitually;  I  wrote  the  poem  with  ex- 
ceeding delight  and  pleasure,  and  whenever  I  read  it  I 
read  it  with  pleasure.  You  have  given  me  praise  for 
having  reflected  faithfully  in  my  poems  the  feelings  of 
human  nature.  I  would  fain  hope  that  I  have  done  so. 
But  a  great  poet  ought  to  do  more  than  this:  he  ought, 
to  a  certain  degree,  to  rectify  men's  feelings,  to  give  them 
new  compositions  of  feeling,  to  render  their  feelings  more 
sane,  pure,  and  permanent,  in  short,  more  consonant  to 
Nature,  that  is,  to  Eternal  Nature  and  the  great  moving 
spirit  of  things.  He  ought  to  travel  before  men  occa- 
sionally, as  well  as  at  their  sides.  I  may  illustrate  this 
by  a  reference  to  natural  objects.  What  false  notions 
have  prevailed  from  generation  to  generation  of  the  true 
character  of  the  nightingale.  As  far  as  my  friend's  poem,^ 
in  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  is  read,  it  will  contribute  greatly 
to  rectify  these.  You  will  recollect  a  passage  in  Cowper, 
where,  speaking  of  rural  sounds,  he  says: 

And  even  the  boding  owl 
That  hails  the  rising  moon  has  charms  for  me.' 

Cowper  was  passionately  fond  of  natural  objects,  yet  you 
see  he  mentions  it  as  a  marvelous  thing  that  he  could 
connect  pleasure  with  the  cry  of  the  owl.  In  the  same 
poem  he  speaks  in  the  same  manner  of  that  beautiful 
plant,  the  gorse;  making  in  some  degree  an  amiable  boast 
of  his  loving  it,  "unsightly*'  and  unsmooth  as  it  is.  There 
are  many  aversions  of  this  kind,  which,  though  they  may 
have  some  foundation  in  nature,  have  yet  so  slight  a  one 
that — though  they  may  have  prevailed  hundreds  of  years 
—a  philosopher  vfiW  look  upon  them  as  accidents.  So 
with  respect  to  many  moral  feelings,  either  of  love  or  dis- 
like. What  excessive  admiration  was  paid  on  former 
times  to  personal  prowess  and  military  success!  It  is  so 
with  the  latter  even  at  the  present  day,  but  surely  not 

» Coleridge's  "The  Nightingale." 
•From  The  Taak,  1.  205. 


WORDSWORTH  29 

nearly  bo  much  as  heretofore.  So  with  regard  to  birth, 
and  innumerable  other  modes  of  sentiment,  civil  and  re- 
ligious. But  you  wiU  be  inclined  to  ask  by  this  time 
how  all  this  applies  to  "The  Idiot  Boy."  To  this  I  can 
only  say  that  the  loathing  and  disgust  which  many  peo- 
ple have  at  the  sight  of  an  idiot  is  a  feeling  which, 
though  having  some  foundation  in  human  nature,  is  not 
necessarily  attached  to  it  in  any  virtuous  degree,  but  is 
owing  in  a  great  measure  to  a  false  delicacy,  and,  if  I 
may  say  it  without  rudeness,  a  certain  want  of  com- 
prehensiveness of  thinking  and  feeling.  Persons  in  the 
lower  classes  of  society  have  little  or  nothing  of  this.  If 
an  idiot  is  bom  in  a  poor  man's  house,  it  must  be  taken 
care  of,  and  cannot  be  boarded  out  as  it  would  be  by 
gentlefolks,  or  sent  to  a  public  or  private  receptacle  for 
such  unfortunate  beings. 

I  often  applied  to  idiots,  in  my  own  mind,  that  sublime 
impression  of  Scripture  that  "their  life  is  hidden  with 
God."  They  are  worshiped,  probably  from  a  feeling  of 
this  sort,  in  several  parts  of  the  East.  Among  the  Alps, 
where  they  are  numerous,  they  are  considered,  I  believe, 
as  a  blessing  to  the  family  to  which  they  belong,  I  have, 
indeed,  often  looked  upon  the  conduct  of  fathers  and 
mothers  of  the  lower  classes  of  society  toward  idiots  as 
a  great  triumph  of  the  human  heart.  It  is  there  that 
we  see  the  strength,  disinterestedness,  and  grandeur  of 
love;  nor  have  I  ever  been  able  to  contemplate  an  object 
that  calls  out  so  many  excellent  and  virtuous  sentiments 
without  finding  it  hallowed  thereby,  and  having  some- 
thing in  me  which  bears  down  before  it,  like  a  deluge, 
every  feeble  sensation  of  disgust  and  aversion. 

There  are,  in  my  opinion,  several  important  mistakes 
in  the  latter  part  of  your  letter.  These  refer  both  to 
the  Boy  and  the  Mother.  I  must  content  myself  simply 
with  observing  that  it  is  probable  that  the  principal  cause 
of  your  dislike  to  this  particular  poem  lies  in  the  word 
Idiot.  If  there  had  been  any  such  word  in  our  language 
to  which  we  had  attached  passion,  as  lack-wit,  half-wit, 
witless,  etc.,  I  should  have  certainly  employed  it  in  pref- 
erence; but  there  is  no  such  word.  Observe  (this  is  en- 
tirely with  reference  to  this  particular  poem),  my  Idiot 
is  not  one  of  those  who  cannot  articulate: 


80  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Whether  in  cunning  or  in  joy, 

And  then  his  words  were  not  a  few,  etc.; — 

and  the  last  speech  at  the  end  of  the  poem.  The  Boy 
whom  I  had  in  my  mind  was  by  no  means  disgusting  in 
his  appearance,  quite  the  contrary;  and  I  have  known 
several  with  imperfect  faculties  who  are  handsome  in 
their  persons  and  features.  There  is  one,  at  present, 
within  a  mile  of  my  own  house,  remarkably  so,  though 
[he  has  something]  of  a  stare  and  vacancy  in  his  coun- 
tenance. A  friend  of  mine,  knowing  that  some  persons 
had  a  dislike  to  the  poem,  such  as  you  have  expressed,  ad- 
vised me  to  add  a  stanza  describing  the  person  of  the  Boy 
[so  as]  entirely  to  separate  him  in  the  imagination  of  my 
readers  from  that  class  of  idiots  who  are  disgusting  in 
their  persons;  but  the  narration  in  the  poem  is  so  rapid 
and  impassioned  that  I  could  not  find  a  place  in  which  to 
insert  the  stanza  without  checking  the  progress  of  it, 
and  [so  leaving]  a  deadness  upon  the  feeling.  This  poem 
has,  I  know,  frequently  produced  the  same  eflFect  as  it 
did  upon  you  and  your  friends;  but  there  are  many  also 
to  whom  it  aflfords  exquisite  delight,  and  who,  indeed, 
prefer  it  to  any  other  of  my  poems.  This  proves  that 
the  feelings  there  delineated  are  such  as  men  may  sym- 
pathize with.  This  is  enougt  for  my  purpose.  It  is  not 
enough  for  me  as  a  poet  to  delineate  merely  such  feel- 
ings as  all  men  do  sympathize  with;  but  it  is  also  highly 
desirable  to  add  to  these  others,  such  as  all  men  may 
sympathize  with,  and  such  as  there  is  reason  to  believe 
they  would  be  better  and  more  moral  beings  if  they  did 
sympathize.  ... 


PREFACE  TO  THE  POEMS  OF  1815 

WiLLUM  Wordsworth 

The  powers  requisite  for  the  production  of  poetry  are: 
first,  those  of  Observation  and  Description, — i.e.,  the  abil- 
ity to  observe  with  accuracy  things  as  they  are  in  them- 
selves, and  with  fidelity  to  describe  them,  unmodified  by 
any  passion  or  feeling  existing  in  the  mind  of  the  de* 


WOEDSWORTH  81 

scriber;  whether  the  things  depicted  be  actually  present 
to  the  senses,  or  have  a  place  only  in  the  memory.  This 
power,  though  indispensable  to  a  poet,  is  one  which  he 
employs  only  in  submission  to  necessity,  and  never  for 
a  continuance  of  time;  as  its  exercise  supposes  all  the 
higher  qualities  of  the  mind  to  be  passive,  and  in  a  state 
of  subjection  to  external  objects,  much  in  the  same  way 
as  a  translator  or  engraver  ought  to  be  to  his  original. 
2ndly,  Sensibility, — ^which,  the  more  exquisite  it  is,  the 
wider  will  be  the  range  of  a  poet's  perceptions;  and  the 
more  will  he  be  incited  to  observe  objects,  both  as  they 
exist  in  themselves  and  as  reacted  upon  by  his  own  mind. 
(The  distinction  between  poetic  and  human  sensibility 
has  been  marked  in  the  character  of  the  poet  delineated 
in  the  original  preface.)^  3rdly,  Reflection, — which  makes 
the  poet  acquainted  with  the  value  of  actions,  images, 
thoughts,  and  feelings,  and  assists  the  sensibility  in  per- 
ceiving their  connection  with  each  other.  4thly,  Imagina- 
tion and  Fancy, — to  modify,  to  create,  and  to  associate. 
5thly,  Invention, — by  which  characters  are  composed  out 
of  materials  supplied  by  observation,  whether  of  the 
poet's  own  heart  and  mind,  or  of  external  life  and  na- 
ture, and  such  incidents  and  situations  produced  as  are 
most  impressive  to  the  imagination,  and  most  fitted  to 
do  justice  to  tLe  characters,  sentiments,  and  passions, 
which  the  poet  undertakes  to  illustrate.  And,  lastly. 
Judgment, — to  decide  how  and  where,  and  in  what  de- 
gree, each  of  these  faculties  ought  to  be  exerted;  so  that 
the  less  shall  not  be  sacrificed  to  the  greater,  nor  the 
greater,  slighting  the  less,  arrogate,  to  its  own  injury, 
more  than  its  due.  By  judgment,  also,  is  determined 
what  are  the  laws  and  appropriate  graces  of  every  species 
of  composition.^ 

The  materials  of  Poetry,  by  these  powers  collected  and 
produced,  are  cast,  by  means  of  various  moulds,  into 
divers  forms.  The  moulds  may  be  enumerated,  and  the 
forms  specified,  in  the  following  order.  1st,  The  Narra- 
tive,— including   the   Epopoeia,   the   Historic    Poem,    the 

>  See  p.  11. 

'  As  eentlblllty  to  harmony  of  numbers,  and  the  power  of  pro- 
ducing It,  are  Invariably  attendants  upon  the  faculties  above  speci- 
fied, nothing  bap  been  said  upon  those  requisites.  [Wordsworth's 
note.J 


32  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Tale,  the  Romance,  the  Mock-heroic,  and,  if  the  spirit 
of  Homer  will  tolerate  such  neighborhood,  that  dear  pro- 
duction of  our  days,  the  metrical  Novel.'  Of  this  class, 
the  distinguishing  mark  is,  that  the  narrator,  however 
liberally  his  speaking  agents  be  introduced,  is  himself 
the  source  from  which  everything  primarily  flows.  Epic 
poets,  in  order  that  their  mode  of  composition  may  ac- 
cord with  the  elevation  of  their  subject,  represent  them- 
selves as  singing  from  the  inspiration  of  the  Muse,  "Anna 
virumque  cano";*"  but  this  is  a  fiction,  in  modern  times, 
of  slight  value :  the  Iliad  or  the  Paradise  Lost  would  gain 
little  in  our  estimation  by  being  chanted.  The  other 
EPets  who  belong  to  this  class  are  commonly  content  to 
tell  their  tale; — so  that  of  the  whole  it  may  be  affirmed 
that  they  neither  require  nor  reject  the  accompaniment 
of  music. 

2ndly,  The  Dramatic, — consisting  of  Tragedy,  Historic 
Drama,  Comedy,  and  Masque,  in  which  the  poet  does  not 
appear  at  all  In  his  own  person,  and  where  the  whole  ac- 
tion is  carried  on  by  speech  and  dialogue  of  the  agents; 
music  being  admitted  only  incidentally  and  rarely.  The 
Opera  may  be  placed  here,  inasmuch  as  it  proceeds  by 
dialogue ;  though  depending,  to  the  degree  that  it  does, 
upon  music,  it  has  a  strong  claim  to  be  ranked  with  the 
lyrical.  The  characteristic  and  impassioned  Epistle,  of 
which  Ovid  and  Pope  have  given  examples,  considered 
as  a  species  of  monodrama,**  may,  without  impropriety, 
be  placed  in  this  class. 

3rdly,  The  Lyrical, — containing  the  Hymn,  the  Ode,  the 
Elegy,  the  Song,  and  the  Ballad;  in  all  which,  for  the 
production  of  their  full  effect,  an  accompaniment  of  music 
is  indispensable. 

4thly,  The  Idyllium, — descriptive  chiefly  either  of  the 
processes  and  appearances  of  external  nature,  as  the 
Seasons  of   Thomson;   or   of   characters,   manners,   and 

»  The  long  narrative  poem  was  a  favorite  of  this  period ;  Scott's 
chief  examples  had  appeared  1808-13,  Byron's  1813-14,  Sontbey's 
1801-14. 

*  "I    sing  of  arms  and  the   man" ;   the  opening  words  of   the 

•  A  drama  with  but  one  speaking  character,  or  what  is  now 
commonly  called  a  dramatic  monologue.  Southey  used  the  term 
of  certain  poetical  monologues  of  his,  and  Tennyson  applied  It  to 
the  series  of  monologues  and  lyrics  forming  Maud. 


WOKDSWORTH  83 

sentiments,  as  are  Shenstone's  Schoolmistress,  The 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night  of  Bums,  The  Twa  Dogs 
of  the  same  Author;  or  of  these  in  conjunction  with  the 
appearances  of  nature,  as  most  of  the  pieces  of  Theocritus, 
the  Allegro  and  Penseroso  of  Milton,  Beattie's  Minstrel, 
Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village.  The  Epitaph,  the  Inscrip- 
tion, the  Sonnet,  most  of  the  epistles  of  poets  writing  in 
their  own  persons,  and  all  loco-descriptive  poetry,  belong 
to  this  class. 

5thly,  Didactic, — the  principal  object  of  which  is  direct 
instruction;  as  the  Poem  of  Lucretius,*  the  Georgics  of 
Virgil,  The  Fleece  of  Dyer,  Mason's  English  Garden,  &c. 

And  lastly,  philosophical  Satire,  like  that  of  Horace 
and  Juvenal;  personal  and  occasional  Satire  rarely  com- 
prehending sufficient  of  the  general  in  the  individual  to 
be  dignified  with  the  name  of  poetry. 

Out  of  the  three  last  has  been  constructed  a  composite 
order,  of  which  Young's  Night  Thoughts  and  Cowper's 
Task  are  excellent  examples. 

It  is  deducible  from  the  above,  that  poems,  apparently 
miscellaneous,  may  with  propriety  be  arranged  either  with 
reference  to  the  powers  of  mind  predominant  in  the  pro- 
duction of  them ;  or  to  the  mould  in  which  they  are  cast ; 
or.  lastly,  to  the  subjects  to  which  they  relate.  From 
each  of  these  considerations,  the  following  poems  have 
been  divided  into  classes ;  which,  that  the  work  may  more 
obviously  correspond  with  the  course  of  human  life,  and 
for  the  sake  of  exhibiting  in  it  the  three  requisites  of  a 
legitimate  whole,  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end,  have 
been  also  arranged,  as  far  as  it  was  possible,  according  to 
an  order  of  time,  commencing  with  Childhood,  and  ter- 
minating with  Old  Age,  Death,  and  Immortality.  My 
guiding  wish  was,  that  the  small  pieces  of  which  these 
volumes  consist,  thus  discriminated,  might  be  regarded 
under  a  two-fold  view;  as  composing  an  entire  work 
within  themselves,  and  as  adjuncts  to  the  philosophical 
poem,  The  Recluse.''  This  arrangement  has  long  presented 
itself  habitually  to  my  own  mind.     Nevertheless,  I  should 

"  Called  De  Rerum  Vatura. 

'  The  Recluse  was  the  name  of  the  complete  philosophic-autobio- 
^aphic  poem  projected  by  Wordsworth,  of  which  The  Prelude  and 
The  Excuraicm,  which  be  completed,  were  to  be  parts. 


34  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

have  preferred  to  scatter  the  contents  of  these  volumes 
at  random,  if  I  had  been  persuaded  that,  by  the  plan 
adopted,  anything  material  would  be  taken  from  the  natu- 
ral effect  of  the  pieces,  individually,  on  the  mind  of  the 
unreflecting  reader.  I  trust  there  is  a  sufficient  variety 
in  each  class  to  prevent  this;  while,  for  him  who  reads 
with  reflection,  the  arrangement  will  serve  as  a  commen- 
tary unostentatiously  directing  his  attention  to  my  pur- 
poses, both  particular  and  general.  But,  as  I  wish  to 
guard  against  the  possibility  of  misleading  by  this  classi- 
fication, it  is  proper  first  to  remind  the  reader  that  cer- 
tain poems  are  placed  according  to  the  powers  of  mind, 
in  the  author's  conception,  predominant  in  the  production 
of  them ;  predominant,  which  implies  the  exertion  of  other 
faculties  in  less  degree.  Where  there  is  more  imagination 
than  fancy  in  a  poem,  it  is  placed  under  the  head  of 
imagination,  and  vice  versa.  Both  the  above  classes  might 
without  impropriety  have  been  enlarged  from  that  con- 
sisting of  *Toems  founded  on  the  Affections";  as  might 
this  latter  from  those,  and  from  the  class  "proceeding  from 
Sentiment  and  Reflection."  The  most  striking  character- 
istics of  each  piece,  mutual  illustration,  variety,  and  pro- 
portion, have  governed  me  throughout. 

None  of  the  other  classes,  except  those  of  Fancy  and 
Imagination,  require  any  particular  notice.  But  a  remark 
of  general  application  may  be  made.  All  poets,  except 
the  dramatic,  have  been  in  the  practice  of  feigning  that 
their  works  were  composed  to  the  music  of  the  harp  or 
lyre:  with  what  degree  of  affectation  this  has  been  done 
in  modern  times,  I  leave  to  the  judicious  to  determine. 
For  my  own  part,  I  have  not  been  disposed  to  violate 
probability  so  far,  or  to  make  such  a  large  demand  upon 
the  reader's  charity.  Some  of  these  pieces  are  essentially 
lyrical,  and  therefore  cannot  have  their  due  force  without 
a  supposed  musical  accompaniment;  but,  in  much  the 
greatest  part,  as  a  substitute  for  the  classic  lyre  or  roman- 
tic harp,  I  require  nothing  more  than  an  animated  or 
impassioned  recitation,  adapted  to  the  subject.  Poems, 
however  humble  in  their  kind,  if  they  be  good  in  that 
kind,  cannot  read  themselves;  the  law  of  long  syllable 
and  short  must  not  be  so  inflexible, — the  letter  of  meter 
must  not  be  so  impassive  to  the  spirit  of  versification, — as 


WORDSWORTH  86 

to  deprive  the  reader  of  all  voluntary  power  to  modulate, 
in  subordination  to  the  sense,  the  music  of  the  poem ; — in 
the  same  manner  as  his  mind  is  left  at  liberty,  and  even 
summoned,  to  act  upon  its  thoughts  and  images.  But, 
though  the  accompaniment  of  a  musical  instrument  be 
frequently  dispensed  with,  the  true  poet  does  not  therefore 
abandon  his  privilege  distinct  from  that  of  the  mere 
proseman ; 

He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 
A  music  sweeter  than  their  own. 

Let  us  come  now  to  the  consideration  of  the  words 
Fancy  and  Imagination,  as  employed  in  the  classification 
of  the  following  poems.  "A  man,"  says  an  intelligent 
author,  **has  imagination  in  proportion  as  he  can  distinctly 
copy  in  the  idea  the  impressions  of  sense :  it  is  the  faculty 
which  images  within  the  mind  the  phenomena  of  sensa- 
tion. A  man  has  fancy  in  proportion  as  he  can  call  up, 
connect,  or  associate,  at  pleasure,  those  internal  images 
(<t>o.PTi,^tiv  is  to  cause  to  appear)  so  as  to  complete  ideal 
representations  of  absent  objects.  Imagination  is  the 
power  of  depicting,  and  fancy  of  evoking  and  combining. 
The  imagination  is  formed  by  patient  observation;  the 
fancy  by  a  volimtary  activity  in  shifting  the  scenery  of 
the  mind.  The  more  accurate  the  imagination,  the  more 
safely  may  a  painter,  or  a  poet,  undertake  a  delineation, 
or  a  description,  without  the  presence  of  the  objects  to  be 
characterised.  The  more  versatile  the  fancy,  the  more 
original  and  striking  will  be  the  decorations  produced." — 
British  Synonyms  Discriminated,  by  W.  Taylor. 

Is  not  this  as  if  a  man  should  undertake  to  supply  an 
account  of  a  building,  and  be  so  intent  upon  what  he 
had  discovered  of  the  foundation,  as  to  conclude  his  task 
without  once  looking  up  at  the  superstructure?  Here,  as 
in  other  instances  throughout  the  volume,  the  judicious 
author's  mind  is  enthralled  by  etymology;  he  takes  up  the 
original  word  as  his  guide  and  escort,  and  too  often  does 
not  perceive  how  soon  he  becomes  its  prisoner,  without 
liberty  to  tread  in  any  path  but  that  to  which  it  confines 
him.  It  is  not  easy  to  find  out  how  imagination,  thus 
explained,  differs  from  distinct  remembrance  of  images, 
or  fancy  from  quick  and  vivid  recollection  of  them:  each 


36  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

is  nothing  more  than  a  mode  of  memory.  If  the  two 
words  bear  the  above  meaning,  and  no  other,  what  term 
is  left  to  designate  that  faculty  of  which  the  poet  is  *'all 
compact";  he  whose  eye  glances  from  earth  to  heaven, 
whose  spiritual  attributes  body  forth  what  his  pen  is 
prompt  in  turning  to  shape ;  or  what  is  left  to  characterize 
fancy,  as  insinuating  herself  into  the  heart  of  objects  with 
creative  activity? — ^Imagination,  in  the  sense  of  the  word 
as  giving  title  to  a  class  of  the  following  poems,  has  no 
reference  to  images  that  are  merely  a  faithful  copy,  exist- 
ing in  the  mind,  of  absent  external  objects;  but  is  a  word 
of  higher  import,  denoting  operations  of  the  mind  upon 
those  objects,  and  processes  of  creation  or  of  composition, 
governed  by  certain  fixed  laws.  I  proceed  to  illustrate  my 
meaning  by  instances.  A  parrot  hangs  from  the  wires  of 
his  cage  by  his  beak  or  by  his  claws,  or  a  monkey  from 
the  bough  of  a  tree  by  his  paws  or  his  tail.  Each  creature 
does  so  literally  and  actually.  In  the  first  Eclogue  of 
Virgil,  the  shepherd,  thinking  of  the  time  when  he  is  to 
take  leave  of  his  farm,  thus  addresses  his  goats: — 

on 
Non  ego  vos  posthac  viridi  projectus  in  antro  '  ,■  ■ 

Dumosa  pendere  procul  de  rupe  videbo.* 


Half  way  down 

Hangs  one  who  gathers  samphire,* 


is  the  well-known  expression  of  Shakespeare,  delineating 
an  ordinary  image  upon  the  cliffs  of  Dover.  In  these 
two  instances  is  a  slight  exertion  of  the  faculty  which  I 
denominate  imagination,  in  the  use  of  one  word:  neither 
the  goats  nor  the  samphire-gatherer  do  literally  hang,  as 
does  the  parrot  or  the  monkey;  but,  presenting  to  the 
senses  something  of  such  an  appearance,  the  mind  in  its 
activity,  for  its  own  gratification,  contemplates  them  as 
hanging. 

As  when  far  off  at  sea  a  fleet  descried 
Hanga  in  the  clouds,  by  equinoctial  winds 
Close  sailing  from  Bengala,  or  the  isles 

'  "Nevermore,  stretched  In  some  mossy  dell,  shall  I  watch  yea 
banging  far  above  the  shrub-clad  cliffs."     (Jackson's  translation.) 
•  King  Lear,  IV,  vi,  15. 


WOEDSWORTH  37 

Of  Ternate  or  Tidore,  whence  merchants  bring 
Their  spicy  drugs;  they  on  the  trading  flood 
Through  the  wide  Ethiopian  to  the  Cape 
Ply,  stemming  nightly  toward  the  Pole:   so  seemed 
Far  oflf  the  flying  Fiend.** 

Here  is  the  full  strength  of  the  imagination  involved  in 
the  word  hangs,  and  exerted  upon  the  whole  image :  First, 
the  fleet,  an  aggregate  of  many  ships,  is  represented  as 
one  mighty  person,  whose  track,  we  know  and  feel,  is 
upon  the  waters;  but,  taking  advantage  of  its  appearance 
to  the  senses,  the  poet  dares  to  represent  it  as  hanging 
in  the  clouds,  both  for  the  gratification  of  the  mind  in 
contemplating  the  image  itself,  and  in  reference  to  the 
motion  and  appearance  of  the  sublime  objects  to  which  it 
is  compared. 

From  impressions  of  sight  we  will  pass  to  those  of 
sound ;  which,  as  they  must  necessarily  be  of  a  less  definite 
character,  shall  be  selected  from  these  volumes : 

Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  Stock-dove  broods;  ** 

i^^he  same  bird. 

His  voice  was  buried  among  trees, 
Yet  to  be  come  at  by  the  breeze;  " 

O,  Cuckoo!  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice?  *• 

The  stock-dove  is  said  to  coo,  a  sound  well  imitating 
the  note  of  the  bird;  but,  by  the  intervention  of  the 
metaphor  broods,  the  affections  are  called  in  by  the  imagi- 
nation to  assist  in  marking  the  manner  in  which  the  bird 
reiterates  and  prolongs  her  soft  note,  as  if  herself  de- 
lighting to  listen  to  it,  and  participating  of  a  still  and 
quiet  satisfaction,  like  that  which  may  be  supposed  in- 
I  separable  from  the  continuous  process  of  incubation. 
I ''His  voice  was  buried  among  trees,"  a  metaphor  express- 
ling  the  love  of  seclusion  by  which  this  bird  is  marked; 

^"Paradise  Lo9t,  II,  636-43. 

"From    "Resolution   and    Independence,"   stanza    1. 

"Prom  the  poem  bejirinning,  "O  Nightingale  I  thou  surely  art." 

"From  "The  Cuckoo"    (1807). 


38  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

and  characterizing  its  note  as  not  partaking  of  the  shrill 
and  the  piercing,  and  therefore  more  easily  deadened  by 
the  intervening  shade;  yet  a  note  so  peculiar  and  withal  so 
pleasing,  that  the  breeze,  gifted  with  that  love  of  the 
sound  which  the  poet  feels,  penetrates  the  shades  in  which 
it  is  entombed,  and  conveys  it  to  the  ear  of  the  listener. 

Shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice? 

This  concise  interrogation  characterizes  the  seeming 
ubiquity  of  the  voice  of  the  cuckoo,  and  dispossesses  the 
creature  almost  of  a  corporeal  existence;  the  imagination 
being  tempted  to  this  exertion  of  her  power  by  a  conscious- 
ness in  the  memory  that  the  cuckoo  is  almost  perpetually 
heard  throughout  the  season  of  spring,  but  seldom  be- 
oomes  an  object  of  sight. 

Thus  far  of  images  independent  of  each  other,  and 
immediately  endowed  by  the  mind  with  properties  that 
do  not  inhere  in  them,  upon  an  incitement  from  proper- 
ties and  qualities  the  existence  of  which  is  inherent  and 
obvious.  These  processes  of  imagination  are  carried  'n 
either  by  conferring  additional  properties  upon  an  object, 
or  abstracting  from  it  some  of  those  which  it  actually 
possesses,  and  thus  enabling  it  to  re-act  upon  the  mind 
which  hath  performed  the  process,  like  a  new  existence. 

I  pass  from  the  imagination  acting  upon  an  individual 
image  to  a  consideration  of  the  same  faculty  employed 
upon  images  in  a  conjunction  by  which  they  modify  each 
other.  The  reader  has  already  had  a  fine  instance  before 
him  in  the  passage  quoted  from  Virgil,  where  the  ap- 
parently perilous  situation  of  the  goat,  hanging  upon 
the  shaggy  precipice,  is  contrasted  with  that  of  the  shep- 
herd contemplating  it  from  the  seclusion  of  the  cavern 
in  which  he  lies  stretched  at  ease  and  in  security.  Take 
these  images  separately,  and  how  unaffecting  the  picture 
compared  with  that  produced  by  their  being  thus  con- 
nected with,  and  opposed  to,  each  other! 

As  a  huge  stone  is  sometinies  seen  to  lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence, 
,  Wonder  to  all  who  do  the  same  espy 
By  what  means  it  could  thither  come,  and  whence. 


WORDSWORTH  89 

So  that  it  Bcems  a  thing  endued  with  sense, 
Like  a  sea-beast  crawled  forth,  which  on  a  shelf 
Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  himself. 

Such  seemed  this  man ;  not  all  alive  or  dead 
Nor  all  asleep,  in  his  extreme  old  age. 

Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  man  stood. 

That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they  call. 

And  moveth  altogether  if  it  move  at  all." 

In  these  images,  the  conferring,  the  abstracting,  and  the 
modifying  powers  of  the  imagination,  immediately  and 
mediately  acting,  are  all  brought  into  conjunction.  The 
stone  is  endowed  with  something  of  the  power  of  life  to 
approximate  it  to  the  sea-beast;  and  the  sea-beast  stripped 
of  some  of  its  vital  qualities  to  assimilate  it  to  the  stone; 
which  intermediate  image  is  thus  treated  for  the  purpose 
of  bringing  the  original  image,  that  of  the  stone,  to  a 
nearer  resemblance  to  the  figure  and  condition  of  the 
aged  man,  who  is  divested  of  so  much  of  the  indications 
of  life  and  motion  as  to  bring  him  to  the  point  where  the 
two  objects  unite  and  coalesce  in  just  comparison.  After 
what  has  been  said,  the  image  of  the  cloud  need  not  be 
commented  upon. 

Thus  far  of  an  endowing  or  modifying  power:  but  the 
imagination  also  shapes  and  creates;  and  how?  By  in- 
numerable processes;  and  in  none  does  it  more  delight 
than  in  that  of  consolidating  numbers  into  unity,^'  and 
dissolving  and  separating  unity  into  number, — alterations 
proceeding  from,  and  governed  by,  a  sublime  consciousness 
of  the  soul  in  her  own  mighty  and  almost  divine  powers. 
Recur  to  the  passage  already  cited  from  Milton.  When 
the  compact  fleet,  as  one  person,  has  been  introduced 
"sailing  from  Bengala,"  'They,"  i.e.  the  "merchants," 
representing  the  fleet  resolved  into  a  multitude  of  ships, 
"ply"  their  voyage  towards  the  extremities  of  the  earth: 
"So,"  (referring  to  the  word  "As"  in  the  commencement) 
"seemed  the  flying  Fiend" ;  the  image  of  his  person  acting 

"  From  "Resolution  and  Independence,"  stanzas  ix-xl. 

"Coleridge's  Idea  (see  p.  HI),  which  led  him  to  coin  for  the 
Imagination  the  term  "esemplastlc  power" — that  Is,  the  power 
which  forms  into  one. 


40  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

to  recombine  the  multitude  of  ships  into  one  body, — the 
point  from  which  the  comparison  set  out.  "So  seemed," 
and  to  whom  seemed?  To  the  heavenly  Muse  who  dic- 
tates the  poem,  to  the  eye  of  the  poet's  mind,  and  to  that 
of  the  reader,  present  at  one  moment  in  the  wide  Ethio- 
pian, and  the  next  in  the  solitudes,  then  first  broken  in 
upon,  of  the  infernal  regions ! 

Mode  me  Tbebis,  mode  ponit  Athenis.^* 

Hear  again  this  mighty  poet, — speaking  of  the  Messiah 
going  forth  to  expel  from  heaven  the  rebellious  angels. 

Attended  by  ten  thousand  thousand  Saints 
He  onward  came:  far  off  his  coming  shone, — ^'' 

the  retinue  of  Saints,  and  the  person  of  the  Messiah  him- 
self, lost  almost  and  merged  in  the  splendor  of  that  in- 
definite abstraction  "His  coming!" 

As  I  do  not  mean  here  to  treat  this  subject  further 
than  to  throw  some  light  upon  the  present  volumes,  and 
especially  upon  one  division  of  them,  I  shall  spare  myself 
and  the  reader  the  trouble  of  considering  the  imagina- 
tion as  it  deals  with  thoughts  and  sentiments,  as  it  regu- 
lates the  composition  of  characters,  and  determines  the 
course  of  actions:  I  will  not  consider  it  (more  than  I  have 
already  done  by  implication)  as  that  power  which,  in  the 
language  of  one  of  my  most  esteemed  friends,  "draws  all 
things  to  one;  which  makes  things  animate  or  inanimate, 
beings  with  their  attributes,  subjects  with  their  acces- 
sories, take  one  colour  and  serve  to  one  effect."  ^^  The 
grand  store-houses  of  enthusiastic  and  meditative  imagina- 
tion, of  poetical,  as  contra-distinguished  from  human  and 
dramatic  imagination,  are  the  prophetic  and  lyrical  parts 
of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  the  works  of  Milton ;  to  which 
I  cannot  forbear  to  add  those  of  Spenser.  I  select  these 
writers  in  preference  to  those  of  ancient  Greece  and 
Rome,  because  the  anthropomorphitism  of  the  pagan  re- 

"Prom  Horace's  EptHlea,  II,  1,  213  ("Now  he  places  me  at 
Thebes,   now  at  Athens").  I 

"  Paradise  Lost,  vl,  767-68.  ' 

"Charles  Lamb  upon  the  genius  of  Hogarth.  [Wordsworth's 
note.] 


WORDSWORTH  41 

ligion  subjected  the  minds  of  the  greatest  poets  in  those 
countries  too  much  to  the  bondage  of  definite  form,  from 
which  the  Hebrews  were  preserved  by  their  abhorrence  of 
idolatry.  This  abhorrence  was  almost  as  strong  in  our 
great  epic  poet,  both  from  circumstances  of  his  life  and 
from  the  constitution  of  his  mind.  However  imbued  the 
surface  might  be  with  classical  literature,  he  was  a  Hebrew 
in  soul ;  and  all  things  tended  in  him  towards  the  sublime. 
Spenser,  of  a  gentler  nature,  maintained  his  freedom  by 
aid  of  his  allegorical  spirit,  at  one  time  inciting  him  to 
create  persons  out  of  abstractions;  and,  at  another,  by  a 
superior  effort  of  genius,  to  give  the  universality  and  per- 
manence of  abstractions  to  his  human  beings,  by  means 
of  attributes  and  emblems  that  belong  to  the  highest  moral 
truths  and  the  purest  sensations, — of  which  his  character 
of  Una  is  a  glorious  example.  Of  the  human  and  dra- 
matic imagination  the  works  of  Shakespeare  are  an  in- 
exhaustible source. 

I  tax  not  you,  ye  elements,  with  unkindness, 
I  never  gave  you  kingdoms,  call'd  you  daughters!** 

And  if,  bearing  in  mind  the  many  poets  distinguished 
by  this  prime  quality,  whose  names  I  omit  to  mention,  yet 
justified  by  recollection  of  the  insults  which  the  ignorant, 
the  incapable,  and  the  presumptuous,  have  heaped  upon 
these  and  my  other  writings,  I  may  be  permitted  to  anti- 
cipate the  judgment  of  posterity  upon  myself,  I  shall 
declare  (censurable,  I  grarit,  if  the  notoriety  of  the  fact 
above  stated  does  not  justify  me)  that  I  have  given,  in 
these  unfavorable  times,  evidence  of  exertions  of  this 
faculty  upon  its  worthiest  objects,  the  external  universe, 
the  moral  and  religious  sentiments  of  man,  his  natural 
affections,  and  his  acquired  passions;  which  have  the  same 
ennobling  tendency  as  the  productions  of  men,  in  this 
kind,  worthy  to  be  holden  in  undying  remembrance. 

To  the  mode  in  which  fancy  has  already  been  char- 
acterized as  the  power  of  evoking  and  combining,  or,  as 
my  friend  Mr.  Coleridge  has  styled  it,  "the  aggregative 
and  associative  power,"  ^o  my  objection  is  only  that  the 

^Kini/  Lear,  III,  ii,  16-17. 
-  See  p.  103. 


42  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

definition  is  too  general.  To  aggregate  and  to  associate, 
to  evoke  and  to  combine,  belong  as  well  to  the  imagination 
as  to  the  fancy ;  but  either  the  materials  evoked  and  com- 
bined are  different,  or  they  are  brought  together  under  a 
different  law,  and  for  a  different  purpose.  Fancy  does 
not  require  that  the  materials  which  she  makes  use  of 
should  be  susceptible  of  change  in  their  constitution,  from 
her  touch;  and,  where  they  admit  of  modification,  it  is 
enough  for  her  purpose  if  it  be  slight,  limited  and  evanes- 
cent. Directly  the  reverse  of  these  are  the  desires  and 
demands  of  the  imagination.  She  recoils  from  every- 
thing but  the  plastic,  the  pliant,  and  the  indefinite.  She 
leaves  it  to  fancy  to  describe  Queen  Mab  as  coming 

In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 
On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman." 

Having  to  speak  of  stature,  she  does  not  tell  you  that  her 
gigantic  angel  was  as  tall  as  Pompey's  Pillar;  much  less 
that  he  was  twelve  cubits,  or  twelve  hundred  cubits  high ;  or 
that  his  dimensions  equaled  those  of  Teneriffe  or  Atlas ; — 
because  these,  and  if  they  were  a  million  times  as  high  it 
would  be  the  same,  are  bounded.  The  expression  is,  "His 
stature  reached  the  sky !"  22  the  illimitable  firmament  1 — 
When  the  imagination  frames  a  comparison,  if  it  does  not 
strike  on  the  first  presentation,  a  sense  of  the  truth  of 
the  likeness,  from  the  moment  that  it  is  perceived,  grows 
• — and  continues  to  grow — upon  the  mind ;  the  resemblance 
depending  less  upon  outline  of  form  and  feature  than  upon 
expression  and  effect;  less  upon  casual  and  outstanding, 
than  upon  inherent  and  internal,  properties :  moreover,  the 
images  invariably  modify  each  other. — The  law  under 
which  the  processes  of  fancy  are  carried  on  is  as  capricious 
as  the  accidents  of  things,  and  the  effects  are  surprising, 
playful,  ludicrous,  amusing,  tender,  or  pathetic,  as  the 
objects  happen  to  be  appositely  produced  or  fortunately 
combined.  Fancy  depends  upon  the  rapidity  and  pro- 
fusion with  which  she  scatters  her  thoughts  and  images, 
trusting  that  their  number,  and  the  felicity  with  which 
they  are  linked  together,  will  make  amends  for  the  want 

"  Romeo  and  Juliet,  I.  Iv,  55-56. 
*' Paradise  Lost,  iv.  9R8. 


WORDSWORTH  43 

of  individual  value;  or  she  prides  herself  upon  the  curious 
subtlety  and  the  successful  elaboration  with  which  she 
can  detect  their  lurking  affinities.  If  she  can  win  you 
over  to  her  purpose,  and  impart  to  you  her  feelings,  she 
cares  not  how  unstable  or  transitory  may  be  her  influence, 
knowing  that  it  will  not  be  out  of  her  power  to  resume 
it  upon  an  apt  occasion.  But  the  imagination  is  conscious 
of  an  indestructible  dominion; — the  soul  may  fall  away 
from  it,  not  being  able  to  sustain  its  grandeur;  but,  if 
once  felt  and  acknowledged,  by  no  act  of  any  other  faculty 
of  the  mind  can  it  be  relaxed,  impaired,  or  diminished. 
Fancy  is  given  to  quicken  and  to  beguile  the  temporal 
part  of  our  nature,  imagination  to  incite  and  to  support 
the  eternal.  Yet  is  it  not  the  less  true  that  fancy,  as  she 
is  an  active,  is  also,  under  her  own  laws  and  in  her  own 
spirit,  a  creative  faculty.  In  what  manner  fancy  ambi- 
tiously aims  at  a  rivalship  with  imagination,  and  imagina- 
tion stoops  to  work  with  the  materials  of  fancy,  might 
be  illustrated  from  the  compositions  of  all  eloquent 
writers,  whether  in  prose  or  verse;  and  chiefly  from  those 
of  our  own  country.  Scarcely  a  page  of  the  impassioned 
parts  of  Bishop  Taylor's  ^^  Works  can  be  opened  that  shall 
not  afford  examples.  Referring  the  reader  to  those  in- 
estimable volumes,  I  will  content  myself  with  placing  a 
conceit  (ascribed  to  Lord  Chesterfield)  in  contrast  with  a 
passage  from  the  Paradise  Lost: — 

The  dews  of  the  evening  moat  carefully  shun. 
They  are  the  tears  of  the  sky  for  the  loss  of  the  sun. 

After  the  transgression  of  Adam,  Milton,  with  other  ap- 
pearances of  sympathizing  nature,  thus  marks  the  imme- 
diate consequence. 

Sky  lowered,  and,  muttering  thunder,  some  sad  drops 
Wept  at  completion  of  the  mortal  sin.** 

The  associating  link  is  the  same  in  each  instance:  dew 
and  rain,  not  distinguishable  from  the  liquid  substance 
of  tears,  are  employed  as  indications  of  sorrow.     A  flash 

"Jeremy  Taylor   (IGl.'l-iee?). 
**Paradi«e  Lost,  ix,  1002-03. 


U  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

of  surprise  is  the  effect  in  the  former  case;  a  flash  of  sur- 
prise, and  nothing  more;  for  the  nature  of  things  does 
not  sustain  the  combination.  In  the  latter,  the  effects 
from  the  act,  of  which  there  is  this  immediate  consequence 
and  visible  sign,  are  so  momentous  that  the  mind  acknowl- 
edges the  justice  and  reasonableness  of  the  sympathy 
in  nature  so  manifested ;  and  the  sky  weeps  drops  of  water 
as  if  with  human  eyes,  as  "Earth  had  before  trembled 
from  her  entrails,  and  Nature  given  a  second  groan." 

Finally,  I  will  refer  to  Cotton's  ^s  Ode  upon  Winter,  an 
admirable  composition,  though  stained  with  some  peculiar- 
ities of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  for  a  general  illustra- 
tion of  the  characteristics  of  fancy.  The  middle  part  of 
this  ode  contains  a  most  lively  description  of  the  entrance 
of  Winter,  with  his  retinue,  as  "a  palsied  king,"  and  yet 
a  military  monarch, — advancing  for  conquest  with  his 
army;  the  several  bodies  of  which,  and  their  arms  and 
equipments,  are  described  with  a  rapidity  of  detail,  and 
a  profusion  of  fancifvl  comparisons,  which  indicate  on  the 
part  of  the  poet  extreme  activity  of  intellect,  and  a  corre- 
spondent hurry  of  delightful  feeling.  Winter  retires  from 
the  foe  into  his  fortress,  where 


a  magazine 


Of  sovereign  juice  is  cellared  in; 
Liquor  that  will  the  siege  maintain 
Should  Phoebus  ne'er  return  again. 

Though  myself  a  water-drinker,  I  cannot  resist  the  pleas- 
ure of  transcribing  what  follows,  as  an  instance  still  more 
happy  of  fancy  employed  in  the  treatment  of  feeling  than, 
in  its  preceding  passages,  the  poem  supplies  of  her  man- 
agement of  forms. 

'Tis  that,  that  gives  the  poet  rage. 
And  thaws  the  gelid  blood  of  age; 
Matures  the  young,  restores  the  old, 
And  makes  the  fainting  coward  bold. 

It  lays  the  careful  head  to  rest. 
Calms  palpitations  in  the  breast, 
Renders  our  lives'  misfortune  sweet; 


»  Charles  Cotton  (1630-1687). 


WORDSWORTH  45 

Then  let  the  chill  Sirocco  blow, 
And  gird  us  round  with  hills  of  snow. 
Or  else  go  whistle  to  the  shore. 
And  make  the  hollow  mountains  roar. 

Whilst  we  together  jovial  sit 
Careless,  and  crowned  with  mirth  and  wit. 
Where,  though  bleak  winds  confine  us  home 
Our  fancies  round  the  world  shall  roam. 

We'll  think  of  all  the  friends  we  know. 
And  drink  to  all  worth  drinking  to; 
When  having  drunk  all  thine  and  mine. 
We  rather  shall  want  healths  than  wine. 

But  where  friends  fail  us,  we'll  supply 
Our  friendships  with  our  charity; 
Men  that  remote  in  sorrows  live, 
Shall  by  our  lusty  brimmers  thrive. 

We'll  drink  the  wanting  into  wealth, 
And  those  that  languish  into  health, 
The  afflicted  into  joy;  th'  opprest 
Into  security  and  rest. 

The  worthy  in  disgrace  shall  find 
Favour  return  again  more  kind. 
And  in  restraint  who  stifled  lie. 
Shall  taste  the  air  of  liberty. 

The  brave  shall  triumph  in  success 
The  lover  shall  have  mistresses. 
Poor  unregarded  virtue,  praise. 
And  the  neglected  poet,  bays. 

Thus  shall  our  healths  do  others  good, 
Whilst  we  ourselves  do  all  we  would; 
For,  freed  from  envy  and  from  care, 
What  would  we  be  but  what  we  are? 

When  I  sat  down  to  write  this  preface,  it  was  my  inten- 
tion to  have  made  it  more  comprehensive;  but,  thinking 
that  I  ought  rather  to  apologize  for  detaining  the  reader 
so  long,  I  will  here  conclude. 


46  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

ADVICE  TO  A  YOUNG  KEVIEWEB 
Edward  Copleston 

[Copleston  was  elected  Fellow  of  Oriel  College,  Oxford, 
when  only  nineteen  years  of  age,  in  1795,  and  Professor  of 
Poetry  in  the  University  when  twenty-six.  This  brilliant 
ironic  skit  was  published  anonymously  at  Oxford  in  1807; 
the  full  title  was  Advice  to  a  Young  Reviewer,  u>ith  a  Specimen 
of  the  Art  (see  note  at  the  close).  The  late  John  Churton 
Collins  writes  of  it  as  follows:  "It  was  immediately  inspired, 
not,  as  is  commonly  supposed,  by  the  critiques  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Review,  but  by  the  critiques  in  the  British  Critic,  a 
periodical  founded  in  1793,  and  exceedingly  influential  between 
that  time  and  about  1812.  Archbishop  Whately,  correcting 
a  statement  in  the  Life  of  Copleston  by  W.  J.  Copleston,  says 
that  it  was  occasioned  by  a  review  of  Mant's  poems  in  the 
British  Critic.  (Whately's  Reminiscences  of  Bishop  Copleston, 
p.  6.)  But  on  referring  to  the  review  of  these  poems,  which 
appeared  in  the  November  number  of  1806, — plainly  the  review 
referred  to, — we  find  nothing  in  it  to  support  Whately's  as- 
sertion. That  the  reviews  in  the  British  Critic  are,  however, 
what  Copleston  is  parodying  in  the  critique  of  'L' Allegro'  is 
abundantly  clear;  but  what  he  says  about  voyages  and  travels 
and  about  science  and  recondite  learning  appear  to  have 
reference  to  articles  particularly  characteristic  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review.  It  was  not,  however,  till  after  the  date  of 
Copleston's  parody  that  the  Edinburgh  Review  began  conspicu- 
ously to  illustrate  what  Copleston  here  satirises;  it  was  not 
till  a  time  more  recent  still  that  periodical  literature  gen- 
erally exemplified  in  literal  seriousness  what  Copleston  in- 
tended as  extravagant  irony.  .  .  .  This  brochure  is  evidently 
modelled  on  Swift's  'Digression  Concerning  Critics'  in  the 
third  section  of  the  Tale  of  a  Tub,  and  owes  something  also 
to  the  'Treatise  on  the  Bathos'  in  Pope's  and  Swift's  Miscel- 
lanies, as  the  title  may  have  been  suggested  by  Shaftesbury's 
Advice  to  an  Author."  (Introduction  to  Critical  Essays  and 
Literary  Fragments,  New  English  Garner  Series. )  ] 

You  are  dow  about  to  enter  on  a  profession  which  has 
the  means  of  doing  much  good  to  society,  and  scarcely 
any  temptation  to  do  harm.  You  may  encourage  genius, 
you  may  chastise  superficial  arrogance,  expose  falsehood, 
correct  error,  and  guide  the  taste  and  opinions  of  the 
age  in  no   small  degree  by  the  books  you   praise  and 


COPLESTON  47 

recommend.  And  this  too  may  be  done  without  running 
the  risk  of  making  any  enemies,  or  subjecting  yourself 
to  be  called  to  account  for  your  criticism,  however  severe. 
While  your  name  is  unknown,  your  person  is  invulner- 
able at  the  same  time  your  aim  is  sure,  for  you  may  take 
it  at  your  leisure ;  and  your  blows  fall  heavier  than  those 
of  any  writer  whose  name  is  given,  or  who  is  simply 
anonymous.  There  is  a  mysterious  authority  in  the 
plural  We,  which  no  single  name,  whatever  may  be  its 
reputation,  can  acquire;  and,  under  the  sanction  of  this 
imposing  style,  your  strictures,  your  praise,  and  your 
dogmas  will  command  universal  attention,  and  be  re- 
ceived as  the  fruit  of  united  talents  acting  on  one  common 
principle, — as  the  judgments  of  a  tribunal  who  decide 
only  on  mature  deliberation,  and  who  protect  the  interests 
of  literature  with  unceasing  vigilance. 

Such  being  the  high  importance  of  that  office,  and  such 
its  opportunities,  I  cannot  bestow  a  few  hours  of  leisure 
better  than  in  furnishing  you  with  some  hints  for  the 
more  easy  and  effectual  discharge  of  it;  hints  which 
are,  I  confess,  loosely  thrown  together,  but  which  are 
the  result  of  long  experience,  and  of  frequent  reflection 
and  comparison.  And  if  anything  should  strike  you,  at 
first  sight,  as  rather  equivocal  in  point  of  morality,  or 
deficient  in  liberality  and  feeling,  I  beg  you  will  sup- 
press all  such  scruples,  and  consider  them  as  the  off- 
spring of  a  contracted  education  and  narrow  way  of 
thinking,  which  a  little  intercourse  with  the  world  and 
sober  reasoning  will  speedily  overcome. 

Now,  as  in  the  conduct  of  life  nothing  is  more  to  be 
desired  than  some  governing  principle  of  action,  to  which 
all  other  principles  and  motives  must  be  made  subservient, 
80  in  the  art  of  reviewing  I  would  lay  down  as  a  funda- 
mental position,  which  you  must  never  lose  sight  of,  and 
which  must  be  the  mainspring  of  all  your  criticisms — 
Write  what  will  sell!  To  this  Golden  Rule  eveiy  minor 
canon  must  be  subordinate,  and  must  be  either  imme- 
diately deducible  from  it  or  at  least  be  made  consistent 
with  it. 

Be  not  staggered  at  the  sound  of  a  precept  which, 
upon  examination,  will  be  found  as  honest  and  virtuous 
as  it  is  discreet.    I  have  already  sketched  out  the  great 


48  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

services  which  it  is  in  your  power  to  render  mankind; 
but  all  your  efforts  will  be  unavailing  if  men  did  not 
read  what  you  write.  Your  utility,  therefore,  it  is  plain, 
depends  upon  your  popularity;  and  popularity  cannot  be 
attained  without  humoring  the  taste  and  inclinations  of 
men.  Be  assured  that,  by  a  similar  train  of  sound  and 
judicious  reasoning,  the  consciences  of  thousands  in  pub- 
lic life  are  daily  quieted.  It  is  better  for  the  state  that 
their  party  should  govern  than  any  other.  The  good 
which  they  can  effect  by  the  exercise  of  power  is  infinitely 
greater  than  any  which  could  arise  from  a  rigid  adherence 
to  certain  subordinate  moral  precepts,  which  therefore 
should  be  violated  without  scruple  whenever  they  stand 
in  the  way  of  their  leading  purpose.  He  who  sticks  at 
these  can  never  act  a  great  part  in  the  world,  and  is  not 
fit  to  act  it  if  he  could.  Such  maxims  may  be  very  useful 
in  ordinary  affairs,  and  for  the  guidance  of  ordinary  men ; 
but  when  we  mount  into  the  sphere  of  public  utility,  we 
must  adopt  moj'e  enlarged  principles,  and  not  suffer  our- 
selves to  be  cramped  and  fettered  by  petty  notions  of 
right  and  moral  duty. 

When  you  have  reconciled  yourself  to  this  liberal  way 
of  thinking,  you  will  find  many  inferior  advantages  re- 
sulting from  it,  which  at  first  did  not  enter  into  your 
consideration.  In  particular,  it  will  greatly  lighten  your 
labors  to  follow  the  public  taste,  instead  of  taking  upon 
you  to  direct  it.  The  task  of  pleasing  is  at  all  times 
easier  than  that  of  instructing;  at  least  it  does  not  stand 
in  need  of  painful  research  and  preparation,  and  may  be 
effected  in  general  by  a  little  vivacity  of  manner,  and  a 
dexterous  morigeration,  as  Lord  Bacon  calls  it,  to  the 
humors  and  frailties  of  men.  Your  responsibility,  too,  is 
thereby  much  lessened.  Justice  and  candor  can  only  be 
required  of  you  so  far  as  they  coincide  with  this  main 
principle;  and  a  little  experience  will  convince  you  that 
these  are  not  the  happiest  means  of  accomplishing  your 
purpose. 

It  has  been  idly  said  that  a  reviewer  acts  in  a  judicial 
capacity,  and  that  his  conduct  should  be  regulated  by  the 
same  rules  by  which  the  judge  of  a  civil  court  is  gov- 
erned :  that  he  should  rid  himself  of  every  bias ;  be  patient, 
cautious,  sedate,  and  rigidly  impartial ;  that  he  should  not 


COPLESTON  49 

seek  to  show  off  himself;  and  should  check  every  dispo- 
sition to  enter  into  the  case  as  a  partisan.  Such  is  the 
language  of  superficial  thinkers;  but  in  reality  there  is 
no  analogy  between  the  two  cases.  A  judge  is  promoted 
to  that  office  by  the  authority  of  the  state,  a  reviewer  by 
his  own.  The  former  is  independent  of  control,  and  may 
therefore  freely  follow  the  dictates  of  his  own  conscience; 
the  latter  depends  for  his  very  bread  upon  the  breath 
of  public  opinion ;  the  great  law  of  self-preservation  there- 
fore points  out  to  him  a  different  line  of  action.  Besides, 
as  we  have  already  observed,  if  he  ceases  to  please,  he  is 
no  longer  read,  and  consequently  is  no  longer  useful. 
In  a  court  of  justice,  too,  the  part  of  amusing  the  by- 
standers rests  with  the  counsel;  in  the  case  of  criticism, 
if  the  reviewer  himself  does  not  undertake  it,  who  will? 

Instead  of  vainly  aspiring  to  the  gravity  of  a  magistrate, 
I  would  advise  him,  when  he  sits  down  to  write,  to  place 
himself  in  the  imaginary  situation  of  a  cross-examining 
pleader.  He  may  comment,  in  a  vein  of  agreeable  irony, 
upon  the  profession,  the  manner  of  life,  the  look,  dress, 
or  even  the  name,  of  the  witness  he  is  examining;  when 
he  has  raised  a  contemptuous  opinion  of  him  in  the  minds 
of  the  Court,  he  may  proceed  to  draw  answers  from  him 
capable  of  a  ludicrous  turn,  and  he  may  carve  and  garble 
these  to  his  own  liking. 

This  mode  of  proceeding  you  will  find  most  practicable 
in  poetry,  where  the  boldness  of  the  image  or  the  delicacy 
of  thought  (for  which  the  reader's  mind  was  prepared  in 
the  original)  will  easily  be  made  to  appear  extravagant 
or  affected,  if  judiciously  singled  out  and  detached  from 
the  group  to  which  it  belongs.  Again,  since  much  de- 
pends upon  the  rhythm  and  the  terseness  of  expression 
(both  of  which  are  sometimes  destroyed  by  dropping  a 
single  word,  or  transposing  a  phrase),  I  have  known  much 
advantage  arise  from  not  quoting  in  the  form  of  a  literal 
extract,  but  giving  a  brief  summary  in  prose,  of  the 
contents  of  a  poetical  passage,  and  interlarding  your  own 
language,  with  occasional  phrases  of  the  poem  marked 
with  inverted  commas.^  These,  and  a  thousand  other 
little  expedients,  by  which  the  arts  of  quizzing  and  banter 

1  Compare  Jeffrey's  method  in  kis  reriew  of  The  Excur$ion,  p. 
78. 


50  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

flourish,  practice  will  soon  teach  you.  If  it  should  be 
necessary  to  transcribe  a  dull  passage,  not  very  fertile  in 
topics  of  humor  and  raillery,  you  may  introduce  it  as  a 
"favorable  specimen  of  the  author's  manner." 

Few  people  are  aware  of  the  powerful  effects  of  what 
is  philosophically  termed  Association.  Without  any  posi- 
tive violation  of  truth,  the  whole  dignity  of  a  passage 
may  be  undermined  by  contriving  to  raise  some  vulgar 
and  ridiculous  notions  in  the  mind  of  the  reader;  and 
language  teems  with  examples  of  words  by  which  the 
same  idea  is  expressed,  with  the  difference  only  that  one 
excites  a  feeling  of  rspect,  the  other  of  contempt.  Thus 
you  may  call  a  fit  of  melancholy  "the  sulks,"  resentment 
"a  pet,"  a  steed  "a  nag,"  a  feast  "a  junketing,"  sorrow 
and  affliction  "whining  and  blubbering."  By  transfer- 
ring the  terms  peculiar  to  one  state  of  society  to  analo- 
gous situations  and  characters  in  another,  the  same  object 
is  attained.  "A  Drill  Sergeant"  or  "a  Cat  and  Nine 
Tails"  in  the  Trojan  War,  "a  Lesbos  smack  putting  into 
the  Pirseus,"  "the  Penny  Post  of  Jerusalem,"  and  other 
combinations  of  the  like  nature  which,  when  you  have 
a  little  indulged  in  that  vein  of  thought,  will  readily 
suggest  themselves,  never  fail  to  raise  a  smile,  if  not 
immediately  at  the  expense  of  the  author,  yet  entirely 
destructive  of  that  frame  of  mind  which  his  poem  requires 
in  order  to  be  relished. 

I  have  dwelt  chiefly  on  this  branch  of  literature,  because 
you  are  chiefly  to  look  here  for  materials  of  fun  and  irony. 
Voyages  and  travels,  indeed,  are  no  barren  ground,  and 
you  must  seldom  let  a  number  of  your  review  go  abroad 
without  an  article  of  this  description.  The  charm  of 
this  species  of  writing,  so  universally  felt,  arises  chiefly 
from  its  uniting  narrative  with  information.  The  in- 
terest we  take  in  the  story  can  only  be  kept  alive  by 
minute  incident  and  occasional  detail,  which  puts  us  in 
possession  of  the  traveler's  feelings,  his  hopes,  his  fears, 
his  disappointments,  and  his  pleasures.  At  the  same  time 
the  thirst  for  knowledge  and  love  of  novelty  is  gratified 
by  continual  information  respecting  the  people  and  coun- 
tries he  visits.  If  you  wish,  therefore,  to  run  down  the 
book,  you  have  only  to  play  off  these  two  parts  against 
each  other.    When  the  writer's  object  is  to  satisfy  the 


COPLESTON  fill 

first  inclination,  you  are  to  thank  him  for  communicating 
to  the  world  such  valuable  facts  as,  whether  he  lost  his 
way  in  the  night,  or  sprained  his  ankle,  or  had  no  appe- 
tite for  his  dinner.  If  he  is  busied  about  describing  the 
mineralogy,  natural  history,  agriculture,  trade,  etc.,  of  a 
country,  you  may  mention  a  hundred  books  from  whence 
the  same  information  may  be  obtained,  and  deprecate  the 
practice  of  emptying  old  musty  folios  into  new  quartos, 
to  gratify  that  sickly  taste  for  a  smattering  about  every- 
thing which  distinguishes  the  present  age. 

In  works  of  science  and  recondite  learning,  the  task 
you  have  undertaken  will  not  be  so  difficult  as  you  may 
imagine.  Tables  of  Contents  and  Indexes  are  blessed 
helps  in  the  hands  of  a  reviewer;  but,  more  than  all,  the 
Preface  is  the  field  from  which  his  richest  harvest  is  to  be 
gathered.  In  the  Preface,  the  author  usually  gives  a 
summary  of  what  has  been  written  on  the  same  subject 
before;  he  acknowledges  the  assistance  he  has  received 
from  different  sources,  and  the  reasons  of  his  dissent 
from  former  writers;  he  confesses  that  certain  parts  have 
been  less  attentively  considered  than  others,  and  that 
information  has  come  to  his  hands  too  late  to  be  made 
use  of;  he  points  out  many  things  in  the  composition  of 
his  work  which  he  thinks  may  provoke  animadversion, 
and  endeavors  to  defend  or  palliate  his  own  practice. 
Here,  then,  is  a  fund  of  wealth  for  the  reviewer,  lying 
upon  the  very  surface.  If  he  knows  anything  of  his  busi- 
ness, he  will  turn  all  these  materials  against  the  author, 
carefully  suppressing  the  source  of  his  information,  and 
as  if  drawing  from  the  stores  of  his  own  mind  long  ago 
laid  up  for  this  very  purpose.  If  the  author's  references 
are  correct,  a  great  point  is  gained;  for  by  consulting  a 
few  passages  of  the  original  works,  it  will  be  easy  to 
discuss  the  subject  with  the  air  of  having  a  previous 
knowledge  of  the  whole. 

Your  chief  vantage  ground  is,  that  you  may  fasten 
upon  any  position  in  the  book  you  are  reviewing,  and 
treat  it  as  principal  and  essential,  when  perhaps  it  is  of 
little  weight  in  the  main  argument;  but,  by  allotting  a 
large  share  of  your  criticism  to  it,  the  reader  will  natu- 
rally be  led  to  give  it  a  proportionate  importance,  and 
to  consider  the  merit  of  the  treatise  at  issue  upon  that 


52  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

single  question.  If  anybody  complains  that  the  greater 
and  more  valuable  parts  remain  unnoticed,  your  answer 
is  that  it  is  impossible  to  pay  attention  to  all,  and  that 
your  duty  is  rather  to  prevent  the  propagation  of  error 
than  to  lavish  praises  upon  that  which,  if  really  excellent, 
will  work  its  way  in  the  world  without  your  help. 

Indeed,  if  the  plan  of  your  review  admits  of  selection, 
you  had  better  not  meddle  with  works  of  deep  research 
and  original  speculation, — such  as  have  already  attracted 
much  notice,  and  cannot  be  treated  superficially  without 
fear  of  being  found  out.  The  time  required  for  making 
yourself  thoroughly  master  of  the  subject  is  so  great,  that 
you  may  depend  upon  it  they  will  never  pay  for  the  re- 
viewing. They  are  generally  the  fruit  of  long  study,  and 
of  talents  concentrated  in  the  steady  pursuit  of  one  object; 
it  is  not  likely,  therefore,  that  you  can  throw  much  light 
on  a  question  of  this  nature,  or  even  plausibly  combat 
the  author's  propositions,  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours, 
which  is  all  you  can  well  afford  to  devote  to  them.  And 
without  accomplishing  one  or  the  other  of  these  points, 
your  review  will  gain  no  celebrity,  and  of  course  no  good 
will  be  done. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  give  you  some  insight  into 
the  facilities  with  which  your  new  employment  abounds. 
I  will  only  mention  one  more,  because  of  its  extensive 
and  almost  universal  application  to  all  branches  of  litera- 
ture: the  topic,  I  mean,  which  by  the  old  rhetoricians  was 
oaUed  i^  ivcwrfwi'  ;2  that  is,  when  a  work  excels  in  one 
quality,  you  may  blame  it  for  not  having  the  opposite. 
For  instance,  if  the  biographical  sketch  of  a  literary  char- 
acter is  minute  and  full  of  anecdote,  you  may  enlarge  on 
the  advantages  of  philosophical  reflection,  and  the  superior 
mind  required  to  give  a  judicious  analysis  of  the  opinions 
and  works  of  deceased  authors.  On  the  contrary,  if  the 
latter  method  is  pursued  by  the  biographer,  you  can,  with 
equal  ease,  extol  the  lively  coloring,  and  truth,  and 
interest,  of  exact  delineation  and  detail.  This  topic,  you 
will  perceive,  enters  into  style  as  well  as  matter,  where 
many  virtues  might  be  named  which  are  incompatible; 
and  whichever  the  author  has  preferred,  it  will  be  the 

*LiteraUj.  from  opposites. 


COPLESTON  88 

signal  for  you  to  launch  forth  on  the  praises  of  its  oppo- 
site, and  continually  to  hold  up  that  to  your  reader  as 
the  model  of  excellence  in  this  species  of  writing. 

You  will  perhaps  wonder  why  all  my  instructions  are 
pointed  towards  the  censure,  and  not  the  praise,  of  books ; 
but  many  reasons  might  be  given  why  it  should  be  so. 
The  chief  are,  that  this  part  is  both  easier,  and  will  sell 
better.  Let  us  hear  the  words  of  Mr.  Burke  on  a  subject 
not  very  dissimilar:  "In  such  cases,"  says  he,  "the  writer 
has  a  certain  fire  and  alacrity  inspired  into  him  by  a 
consciousness  that  (let  it  fare  how  it  will  with  the  subject) 
his  ingenuity  will  be  sure  of  applause;  and  this  alacrity 
becomes  much  greater,  if  he  acts  upon  the  offensive,  by 
the  impetuosity  that  always  accompanies  an  attack,  and 
the  unfortunate  propensity  which  mankind  have  to  finding 
and  exaggerating  faults."  (Preface,  Vindic.  Nat.  Soc, 
p.  6.) 

You  will  perceive  that  I  have  on  no  occasion  sanctioned 
the  baser  motives  of  private  pique,  envy,  revenge,  and 
love  of  detraction.  At  least  I  have  not  recommended 
harsh  treatment  upon  any  of  these  grounds.  I  have 
argued  simply  on  the  abstract  moral  principle  which  a 
reviewer  should  ever  have  present  to  his  mind;  but  if 
any  of  these  motives  insinuate  themselves  as  secondary 
springs  of  action,  I  would  not  condemn  them.  They  may 
come  in  aid  of  the  grand  leading  principle,  and  power- 
fully second  its  operation. 

But  it  is  time  to  close  these  tedious  precepts,  and  to 
furnish  you  with — what  speaks  plainer  than  any  precept — 
a  specimen  of  the  art  itself,  in  which  several  of  them  are 
embodied.  It  is  hastily  done;  but  it  exemplifies  well 
enough  what  I  have  said  of  the  poetical  department,  and 
exhibits  most  of  those  qualities  which  disappointed  au- 
thors are  fond  of  railing  at,  under  the  names  of  flip- 
pancy, arrogance,  conceit,  misrepresentation,  and  malevo- 
lence,— reproaches  which  you  will  only  regard  as  so  many 
acknowledgments  of  success  in  your  undertaking,  and 
infallible  tests  of  an  established  fame,  and  rapidly  in- 
creasing circulation.' 

•There  foUowB  a  mock  review  of  Milton's  I/Alleffro,  conclud- 
ing with  the  wordB :  "Upon  the  whole,  Mr.  Milton  seems  to  be 
possessed  of  some  fancy  and   talent  for  rhyming ;   two  most  dan- 


64  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

SCOTT'S  "LADY  OF  THE  LAKE" 

Francis  Jeffrey 
[From  the  Edinburgh  Review  for  August,  1810.] 

Mr.  Scott,  though  living  in  an  age  unusually  prolific 
of  original  poetry,  has  manifestly  outstripped  all  his 
competitors  in  the  race  of  popularity,  and  stands  already 
upon  a  height  to  which  no  other  writer  has  attained  in 
the  memory  of  any  one  now  alive.  We  doubt,  indeed, 
whether  any  English  poet  ever  had  so  many  of  his  books 
sold,  or  so  many  of  his  verses  read  and  admired  by  such 
a  multitude  of  persons,  in  so  short  a  time.  We  are  cred- 
ibly informed  that  nearly  thirty  thousand  copies  of  The 
Lay  have  been  already  disposed  of  in  this  country,  and 
that  the  demand  for  Marmion  and  the  poem  now  before 
us  has  been  still  more  considerable, — a  circulation,  we 
believe,  altogether  without  example,  in  the  case  of  a  bulky 
work,  not  addressed  to  the  bigotry  of  the  mere  mob,  either 
religious  or  political. 

A  popularity  so  universal  is  a  pretty  sure  proof  of  ex- 
traordinary merit, — a  far  surer  one,  we  readily  admit, 
than  would  be  afforded  by  any  praises  of  ours;  and 
therefore,  though  we  pretend  to  be  privileged,  in  ordinary 
cases,  to  foretell  the  ultimate  reception  of  all  claims  on 
public  admiration,  our  function  may  be  thought  to  cease, 
where  the  event  is  already  so  certain  and  conspicuous. 
As  it  is  a  sore  thing,  however,  to  be  deprived  of  our 
privileges  on  so  important  an  occasion,  we  hope  to  be 
pardoned  for  insinuating  that,  even  in  such  a  case,  the 
office  of  the  critic  may  not  be  altogether  superfluous. 
Though  the  success  of  the  author  be  decisive,  and  likely 
to  be  permanent,  it  still  may  not  be  without  its  use  to 
point  out,  in  consequence  of  what,  and  in  spite  of  what, 
he  has  succeeded,  nor  altogether  uninstructive  to  trace  the 
precise  limits  of  the  connection  which,  even  in  this  dull 

zerouB  endowments  which  often  unfit  men  for  acting  a  useful  part 
in  life  without  qualifying  them  for  that  which  is  great  and  bril- 
liant. If  It  be  true,  as  we  have  heard,  that  he  has  declined  ad- 
vantageous prospects  in  business  for  the  salce  of  indulging  his 
poetical  humor,  we  hope  it  is  not  yet  too  late  to  prevail  upon  him 
to  retract  his  resolution." 


JEFFREY  66 

world,  indisputably  subsists  between  success  and  desert, 
and  to  ascertain  how  far  unexampled  popularity  does 
really  imply  unrivalled  talent. 

As  it  is  the  object  of  poetry  to  give  pleasure,  it  would 
seem  to  be  a  pretty  safe  conclusion  that  that  poetry  must 
be  the  best  which  gives  the  greatest  pleasure  to  the  great- 
est number  of  persons.  Yet  we  must  pause  a  little,  be- 
fore we  give  our  assent  to  so  plausible  a  proposition.  It 
would  not  be  quite  correct,  we  fear,  to  say  that  those  are 
invariably  the  best  judges  who  are  most  easily  pleased. 
The  great  multitude,  even  of  the  reading  world,  must 
necessarily  be  uninstructed  and  injudicious,  and  will  fre- 
quently be  found  not  only  to  derive  pleasure  from  what 
is  worthless  in  finer  eyes,  but  to  be  quite  insensible  to 
those  beauties  which  afiFord  the  most  exquisite  delight  to 
more  cultivated  understandings.  True  pathos  and  sub- 
limity will  indeed  charm  every  one;  but,  out  of  this  lofty 
sphere,  we  are  pretty  well  convinced  that  the  poetry  which 
appears  most  perfect  to  a  very  refined  taste  will  not  often 
turn  out  to  be  very  popular  poetry. 

This,  indeed,  is  saying  nothing  more  than  that  the  ordi- 
nary readers  of  poetry  have  not  a  very  refined  taste,  and 
that  they  are  often  insensible  to  many  of  its  highest 
beauties,  while  they  still  more  frequently  mistake  its  im- 
perfections for  excellence.  The  fact,  when  stated  in  this 
simple  way,  commonly  excites  neither  opposition  nor  sur- 
prise; and  yet  if  it  be  asked  why  the  taste  of  a  few  indi- 
viduals, who  do  not  perceive  beauty  where  many  others 
perceive  it,  should  be  exclusively  dignified  with  the  name 
of  a  good  taste,  or  why  poetry  which  gives  pleasure  to 
a  very  great  number  of  readers  should  be  thought  in- 
ferior to  that  which  pleases  a  much  smaller  number,  the 
answer,  perhaps,  may  not  be  quite  so  ready  as  might  have 
been  expected  from  the  alacrity  of  our  assent  to  the  first 
proposition.  That  there  is  a  good  answer  to  be  given, 
however,  we  entertain  no  doubt ;  and  if  that  which  we  are 
about  to  offer  should  not  appear  very  clear  or  satisfactory, 
we  must  submit  to  have  it  thought  that  the  fault  is  not 
altogether  in  the  subject. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  it  should  be  remembered  that, 
though  the  taste  of  very  few  good  judges  is  necessarily 
the  taste  of  a  few,  it  is  implied  in  their  description  that 


56  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

they  are  persons  eminently  qualified,  by  natural  sensi- 
bility and  long  experience  and  reflection,  to  perceive  all 
beauties  that  really  exist,  as  well  as  to  settle  the  rela- 
tive value  and  importance  of  all  the  different  sorts  of 
beauty; — they  are  in  that  very  state,  in  short,  to  which 
all  who  are  in  any  degree  capable  of  tasting  those  refined 
pleasures  would  certainly  arrive,  if  their  sensibility  were 
increased  and  their  experience  and  reflection  enlarged. 
It  is  diflScult,  therefore,  in  following  out  the  ordinary 
analogies  of  language,  to  avoid  considering  them  as  in 
the  right,  and  calling  their  taste  the  true  and  the  just 
one,  when  it  appears  that  it  is  such  as  is  uniformly  pro- 
duced by  the  cultivation  of  those  faculties  upon  which 
all  our  perceptions  of  taste  so  obviously  depend. 

It  is  to  be  considered  also  that,  although  it  be  the  end 
of  poetry  to  please,  one  of  the  parties  whose  pleasure  and 
whose  notions  of  excellence  will  always  be  primarily  con- 
sulted in  its  composition,  is  the  poet  himself;  and  as  he 
must  necessarily  be  more  cultivated  than  the  great  body 
of  his  readers,  the  presumption  is  that  he  will  always 
belong,  comparatively  speaking,  to  the  class  of  good 
judges,  and  endeavor,  consequently,  to  produce  that  sort 
of  excellence  which  is  likely  to  meet  with  their  approba- 
tion. When  authors,  and  those  of  whose  suffrages  au- 
thors are  most  ambitious,  thus  conspire  to  fix  upon  the 
same  standard  of  what  is  good  in  taste  and  composition, 
it  is  easy  to  see  how  it  should  come  to  bear  this  name  in 
society,  in  preference  to  what  might  afford  more  pleasure 
to  individuals  of  less  influence.  Besides  all  this,  it  is 
obvious  that  it  must  be  infinitely  more  difficult  to  pro- 
duce anything  conformable  to  this  exalted  standard,  than 
merely  to  fall  in  with  the  current  of  popular  taste.  To 
attain  the  former  object,  it  is  necessary,  for  the  most 
part,  to  understand  thoroughly  all  the  feelings  and  asso- 
ciations that  are  modified  or  created  by  cultivation;  to 
accomplish  the  latter,  it  will  often  be  sufficient  merely  to 
have  observed  the  course  of  familiar  preferences.  Suc- 
cess, however,  is  rare  in  proportion  as  it  is  difficult;  and 
it  is  needless  to  say  what  a  vast  addition  rarity  makes 
to  value,  or  how  exactly  our  admiration  at  success  is 
proportioned  to  our  sense  of  the  difficulty  of  the  under- 
taking. 


JEFFREY  57 

Such  seem  to  be  the  most  general  and  immediate  causes 
of  the  apparent  paradox  of  reckoning  that  which  pleases 
the  greatest  number  as  inferior  to  that  which  pleases 
the  few;  and  such  the  leading  grounds  for  fixing  the 
standard  of  excellence,  in  a  question  of  mere  feeling  and 
gratification,  by  a  different  rule  than  that  of  the  quantity 
of  gratification  produced.  With  regard  to  some  of  the 
fine  arte — for  the  distinction  between  popular  and  actual 
merit  obtains  in  them  all — there  are  no  other  reasons, 
perhaps,  to  be  assigned;  and,  in  music  for  example,  when 
we  have  said  that  it  is  the  authority  of  those  who  are  best 
qualified  by  nature  and  study,  and  the  difficulty  and  rarity 
of  the  attainment,  that  entitles  certain  exquisite  perform- 
ances to  rank  higher  than  others  that  give  far  more  gen- 
eral delight,  we  have  probably  said  all  that  can  be  said 
in  explanation  of  this  mode  of  speaking  and  judging.  In 
poetry,  however,  and  in  some  other  departments,  this  fa- 
miliar though  somewhat  extraordinary  rule  of  estimation 
is  justified  by  other  considerations. 

As  it  is  the  cultivation  of  natural  and  perhaps  univer- 
sal capacities  that  produces  that  refined  taste  which  takes 
away  our  pleasure  in  vulgar  excellence,  so  it  is  to  be 
considered  that  there  is  an  universal  tendency  to  the 
propagation  of  such  a  taste,  and  that,  in  times  tolerably 
favorable  to  human  happiness,  there  is  a  continual  prog- 
ress and  improvement  in  this,  as  in  the  other  faculties 
of  nations  and  large  assemblages  of  men.  The  number 
of  intelligent  judges  may  therefore  be  regarded  as  per- 
petually on  the  increase  The  inner  circle,  to  which  the 
poet  delights  chiefly  to  pitch  his  voice,  is  perpetually 
enlarging;  and,  looking  to  that  great  futurity  to  which 
his  ambition  is  constantly  directed,  it  may  bo  found  that 
the  most  refined  style  of  composition  to  which  he  can 
attain  will  be,  at  the  last,  the  most  extensively  and  per- 
manently popular.  This  holds  true,  we  think,  with  re- 
gard to  all  the  productions  of  art  that  are  open  to  the 
inspection  of  any  considerable  part  of  the  community; 
but,  with  regard  to  poetry  in  particular,  there  is  one  cir- 
cumstance to  be  attended  to,  that  renders  this  conclusion 
peculiarly  safe,  and  goes  'far  to  reconcile  the  taste  of 
the  multitude  with  that  of  more  cultivated  judges. 

As  it  seems  difficult  to  conceive  that  mere  cultivation 


58  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

should  either  absolutely  create  or  utterly  destroy  any 
natural  capacity  of  enjoyment,  it  is  not  easy  to  suppose 
that  the  qualities  which  delight  the  uninstructed  should 
be  substantially  different  from  those  which  give  pleasure 
to  the  enlightened.  They  may  be  arranged  according  to 
a  different  scale,  and  certain  shades  and  accompaniments 
may  be  more  or  less  indispensable;  but  the  qualities  in 
a  poem  that  give  most  pleasure  to  the  refined  and  fastidi- 
ous critic  are  in  substance,  we  believe,  the  very  same 
that  delight  the  most  injudicious  of  its  admirers:  and 
the  very  wide  difference  which  exists  between  their  usual 
estimates  may  be  in  a  great  degree  accounted  for  by 
considering  that  the  one  judges  absolutely,  the  other  rela- 
tively— that  the  one  attends  only  to  the  intrinsic  qualities 
of  the  work,  while  the  other  refers  more  immediately  to 
the  merit  of  the  author.  The  most  popular  passages  in 
popular  poetry  are  in  fact,  for  the  most  part,  very  beau- 
tiful and  striking;  yet  they  are  very  often  such  passages 
as  could  never  be  ventured  on  by  any  writer  who  aimed 
at  the  praise  of  the  judicious;  and  this  for  the  obvious 
reason  that  they  are  trite  and  hackneyed, — that  they  have 
been  repeated  till  they  have  lost  all  grace  and  propriety, 
and,  instead  of  exalting  the  imagination  by  the  impres- 
sion of  original  genius  or  creative  fancy,  only  nauseate 
and  offend  by  the  association  of  paltry  plagiarism  and 
impudent  inanity.  It  is  only,  however,  on  those  who  have 
read  and  remembered  the  original  passages,  and  their 
better  imitations,  that  this  effect  is  produced.  To  the 
ignorant  and  the  careless,  the  twentieth  imitation  has 
all  the  charm  of  an  original;  and  that  which  oppresses 
the  more  experienced  reader  with  weariness  and  disgust, 
rouses  them  with  all  the  force  and  vivacity  of  novelty. 
It  is  not,  then,  because  the  ornaments  of  popular  poetry 
are  deficient  in  intrinsic  worth  and  beauty,  that  they  are 
slighted  by  the  critical  reader,  but  because  he  at  once 
recognizes  them  to  be  stolen,  and  perceives  that  they  are 
arranged  without  taste  or  congruity.  In  his  indignation 
at  the  dishonesty  and  his  contempt  for  the  poverty  of  the 
collector,  he  overlooks  altogether  the  value  of  what  he 
has  collected,  or  remembers  it  only  as  an  aggravation  of 
his  offense, — as  converting  larceny  into  sacrilege,  and  add- 
ing the  guilt  of  profanation  to  the  folly  of  unsuitable 


JEFFREY  59 

finery.  There  are  other  features,  no  doubt,  that  distin- 
guish the  idols  of  vulgar  admiration  from  the  beautiful 
exemplars  of  pure  taste;  but  this  is  so  much  the  most 
characteristic  and  remarkable  that  we  know  no  way  in 
which  we  could  so  shortly  describe  the  poetry  that  pleases 
the  multitude,  and  displeases  the  select  few,  as  by  saying 
that  it  consisted  of  all  the  most  known  and  most  brilliant 
parts  of  the  most  celebrated  authors, — of  a  splendid  and 
unmeaning  accumulation  of  those  images  and  phrases 
which  had  long  charmed  every  reader  in  the  works  of 
their  original  inventors. 

The  justice  of  these  remarks  will  probably  be  at  once 
admitted  by  all  who  have  attended  to  the  historr  and 
effects  of  what  may  be  called  poetical  diction  ^  in  general, 
or  even  of  such  particular  phrases  and  epithets  as  have 
been  indebted  to  their  beauty  for  too  great  a  notoriety. 
Our  associations  with  all  this  class  of  expressions,  which 
have  become  trite  only  in  consequence  of  their  intrinsic 
excellence,  now  suggest  to  us  no  ideas  but  those  of  school- 
boy imbecility  and  childish  affectation.  We  look  upon 
them  merely  as  the  common,  hired,  and  tawdry  trappings 
of  all  who  wish  to  put  on,  for  the  hour,  the  masquerade 
habit  of  poetry;  and,  instead  of  receiving  from  them  any 
kind  of  delight  or  emotion,  do  not  even  distinguish  or 
attend  to  the  signification  of  the  words  of  which  they 
consist.  The  ear  is  so  palled  with  their  repetition,  and 
so  accustomed  to  meet  with  them  as  the  habitual  exple- 
tives of  the  lowest  class  of  versifiers,  that  they  come  at 
last  to  pass  over  it  without  exciting  any  sort  of  concep- 
tion whatever,  and  are  not  even  so  much  attended  to  as 
to  expose  their  most  gross  incoherence  or  inconsistency 
to  detection.  It  is  of  this  quality  that  Swift  has  availed 
himself  in  so  remarkable  a  manner,  in  his  famous  "Song 
by  a  Person  of  Quality,"  ^  which  consists  entirely  in  a 
selection  of  some  of  the  most  trite  and  well-sounding 
phrases  and  epithets  in  the  poetical  lexicon  of  the  time, 
strung  together  without  any  kind   of  meaning  or  con- 

'  See  Wordsworth  on  the  same  phrase,  p.  7  and  note. 
*  The  verses   begin  : 

I  said  to  my  heart,  between  sleeping  and  waking, 
Thou    wild    thinp    that    always    art    leaping    or    aching. 
Jeffrey's   description    would    apply    rather    more    accurately    to   an- 
other skit  of  Swift's,  called  "A  Love  Song  in  the  Modern  Taste." 


60  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

sistency,  and  yet  so  disposed  as  to  have  been  perused, 
perhaps  by  one  half  of  their  readers,  without  any  sus- 
picion of  the  deception.  Most  of  those  phrases,  how- 
ever, which  had  thus  become  sickening,  and  almost  in- 
significant, to  the  intelligent  readers  of  poetry  in  the 
days  of  Queen  Anne,  are  in  themselves  beautiful  and 
expressive,  and  no  doubt  retain  much  of  their  native  grace 
in  those  ears  that  have  not  been  alienated  by  their  repe- 
tition. 

But  it  is  not  merely  from  the  use  of  much  excellent 
diction  that  a  modern  poet  is  thus  debarred  by  the 
lavishness  of  his  predecessors.  There  is  a  certain  range 
of  subjects  and  characters,  and  a  certain  manner  and 
tone,  which  were  probably,  in  their  origin,  as  graceful 
and  attractive,  which  have  been  proscribed  by  the  same 
dread  of  imitation.  It  would  be  too  long  to  enter,  in 
this  place,  into  any  detailed  examination  of  the  peculiari- 
ties— originating  chiefly  in  this  source — which  distinguish 
ancient  from  modern  poetry.  It  may  be  enough  just  to 
remark  that,  as  the  elements  of  poetical  emotion  are 
necessarily  limited,  so  it  was  natural  for  those  who  first 
sought  to  excite  it  to  avail  themselves  of  those  subjects, 
situations,  and  images  that  were  most  obviously  calculated 
to  produce  that  effect,  and  to  assist  them  by  the  use  of 
all  those  aggravating  circumstances  that  most  readily 
occurred  as  likely  to  heighten  their  operation.  In  this 
way  they  may  be  said  to  have  got  possession  of  all  the 
choice  materials  of  their  art,  and,  working  without  fear  of 
comparisons,  fell  naturally  into  a  free  and  graceful  style 
of  execution,  at  the  same  time  that  the  profusion  of  their 
resources  made  them  somewhat  careless  and  inexpert  in 
their  application.  After-poets  were  in  a  very  different 
situation.  They  could  neither  take  the  most  natural  and 
general  topics  of  interest,  nor  treat  them  with  the  ease 
and  indifference  of  those  who  had  the  whole  store  at 
their  command, — ^because  this  was  precisely  what  had 
been  already  done  by  those  who  had  gone  before  them; 
and  they  were  therefore  put  upon  various  expedients  for 
attaining  their  object  and  yet  preserving  their  claim  to 
originality.  Some  of  them  accordingly  set  themselves  to 
observe  and  delineate  both  characters  and  external  ob- 
jects with  greater  minuteness  and  fidelity,  and  others  to 


JEFFREY  61 

analyze  more  carefully  the  mingling  passions  of  the  heart, 
and  to  feed  and  cherish  a  more  limited  train  of  emotion, 
through  a  longer  and  more  artful  succession  of  incidents; 
while  a  third  sort  distorted  both  nature  and  passion, 
according  to  some  fantastical  theory  of  their  own,  or  took 
such  a  narrow  comer  of  each,  and  dissected  it  with  such 
curious  and  microscopic  accuracy,  that  its  original  form 
was  no  longer  discernible  by  the  eyes  of  the  uninstructed.^ 
In  this  way  we  think  that  modern  poetry  has  both  been 
enriched  with  more  exquisite  pictures,  and  deeper  and 
more  sustained  strains  of  pathetic,  than  were  known  to 
the  less  elaborate  artists  of  antiquity;  at  the  same  time 
that  it  has  been  defaced  with  more  affectation,  and  loaded 
with  far  more  intricacy.  But  whether  they  failed  or  suc- 
ceeded, and  whether  they  distinguished  themselves  from 
their  predecessors  by  faults  or  by  excellences,  the  later 
poets,  we  conceive,  must  be  admitted  to  have  almost 
always  written  in  a  more  constrained  and  narrow  man- 
ner than  their  originals,  and  to  have  departed  farther 
from  what  was  obvious,  easy,  and  natural.  Modem 
poetry,  in  this  respect,  may  be  compared,  perhaps,  with- 
out any  great  impropriety,  to  modem  sculpture.  It  is 
greatly  inferior  to  the  ancient  in  freedom,  grace,  and 
simplicity;  but,  in  return,  it  frequently  possesses  a  more 
decided  expression,  and  more  fine  finishing  of  less  suitable 
embellishments. 

Whatever  may  be  gained  or  lost,  however,  by  this  change 
of  manner,  it  is  obvious  that  poetry  must  become  less  pop- 
ular by  means  of  it.  For  the  most  natural  and  obvious 
manner  is  always  tHe  most  taking;  and  whatever  costs 
the  author  much  pains  and  labor  is  usually  found  to  re- 
quire a  corresponding  effort  on  the  part  of  the  reader, — 
which  all  readers  are  not  disposed  to  make.  That  they 
who  seek  to  be  original  by  means  of  affectation  should 
revolt  more  by  their  affectation  than  they  attract  by  their 
originality,  is  just  and  natural;  but  even  the  nobler 
devices  that  win  the  suffrages  of  the  judicious  by  their 
intrinsic  beauty,  as  well  as  their  novelty,  are  apt  to  repel 
the  multitude,  and  to  obstruct  the  popularity  of  some 
of  the  most  exquisite  productions  of  genius.     The  beau- 

» Jeffrey  probably  alludes  to  John  Donne  and  other  poets  of  the 
"metaphysical"  school. 


62  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

tiful  but  minute  delineations  of  such  admirable  observers 
as  Crabbe  or  Cowper  are  apt  to  appear  tedious  to  those 
who  take  little  interest  in  their  subjects,  and  have  no 
concern  about  their  art;  and  the  refined,  deep,  and  sus- 
tained pathetic  of  Campbell  is  still  more  apt  to  be  mis- 
taken for  monotony  and  languor,  by  those  who  are  either 
devoid  of  sensibility  or  impatient  of  quiet  reflection. 
The  most  popular  style  undoubtedly  is  that  which  has 
great  variety  and  brilliancy,  rather  than  exquisite  finish 
in  its  images  and  descriptions,  and  which  touches  lightly 
on  many  passions,  without  raising  any  so  high  as  to 
transcend  the  comprehension  of  ordinary  mortals — or 
dwelling  on  it  so  long  as  to  exhaust  their  patience. 

Whether  Mr.  Scott  holds  the  same  opinion  with  us 
upon  these  matters,  and  has  intentionally  conformed  his 
practice  to  this  theory,  or  whether  the  peculiarities  in 
his  compositions  have  been  produced  merely  by  following 
out  the  natural  bent  of  his  genius,  we  do  not  presume  to 
determine.  But  that  he  has  actually  made  use  of  all  our 
recipes  for  popularity,  we  think  very  evident;  and  conceive 
that  few  things  are  more  curious  than  the  singular  skill, 
or  good  fortune,  with  which  he  has  reconciled  his  claims 
on  the  favor  of  the  multitude  with  his  pretensions  to 
more  select  admiration.  Confident  in  the  force  and  origi- 
nality of  his  own  genius,  he  has  not  been  afraid  to 
avail  himself  of  commonplaces  both  of  diction  and  of 
sentiment,  whenever  they  appeared  to  be  beautiful  or 
impressive, — using  them,  however,  at  all  times,  with  the 
skill  and  spirit  of  an  inventor;  and,  quite  certain  that 
he  could  not  be  mistaken  for  a  plagiarist  or  imitator,  he 
has  made  free  use  of  that  great  treasury  of  characters, 
images,  and  expressions,  which  had  been  accumulated  by 
the  most  celebrated  of  his  predecessors;  at  the  same  time 
that  the  rapidity  of  his  transitions,  the  novelty  of  his 
combinations,  and  the  spirit  and  variety  of  his  own 
thoughts  and  inventions,  show  plainly  that  he  was  a  bor- 
rower from  anything  but  poverty,  and  took  only  what  he 
would  have  given  if  he  had  been  born  in  an  earlier  genera- 
tion. The  great  secret  of  his  popularity,  however,  and 
the  leading  characteristic  of  his  poetry,  appear  to  us  to 
consist  evidently  in  this, — that  he  has  made  more  use  of 
common  topics,  images  and  expressions  than  any  original 


JEFFREY  68 

» 

poet  of  later  times,  and  at  the  same  time  displayed  more 
genius  and  originality  than  any  recent  author  who  has 
worked  in  the  same  materials.  By  the  latter  peculiarity 
he  has  entitled  himself  to  the  admiration  of  every  descrip- 
tion of  readers;  by  the  former  he  is  recommended  in  an 
especial  manner  to  the  inexperienced,  at  the  hazard  of 
some  little  offence  to  the  more  cultivated  and  fastidious. 

In  the  choice  of  his  subjects,  for  example,  he  does  not 
attempt  to  interest  merely  by  fine  obsei^ation  or  pathetic 
sentiment,  but  takes  the  assistance  of  a  story,  and  enlists 
the  reader's  curiosity  among  his  motives  for  attention. 
Then  his  characters  are  all  selected  from  the  most  com- 
mon dramatis  persorue  of  poetry :  kings,  warriors,  knights, 
outlaws,  nuns,  minstrels,  secluded  damsels,  wizards,  and 
true  lovers.  He  never  ventures  to  carry  us  into  the  cot- 
tage of  the  modern  peasant,  like  Crabbe  or  Cowper;  nor 
into  the  bosom  of  domestic  privacy,  like  Campbell;  nor 
among  creatures  of  the  imagination,  like  Southey  or 
Darwin.*  Such  personages,  we  readily  admit,  are  not  in 
themselves  so  interesting  or  striking  as  those  to  whom 
Mr.  Scott  has  devoted  himself;  but  they  are  far  less  fa- 
miliar in  poetry,  and  are  therefore  more  likely,  perhaps, 
to  engage  the  attention  of  those  to  whom  poetry  is  fa- 
miliar. In  the  management  of  the  passions,  again,  Mr. 
Scott  appears  to  us  to  have  pursued  the  same  popular 
and  comparatively  easy  course.  He  has  raised  all  the 
most  familiar  and  poetical  emotions,  by  the  most  obvious 
aggravations,  and  in  the  most  compendious  and  judicious 
way.  He  has  dazzled  the  reader  with  the  splendor,  and 
even  warmed  him  with  the  transient  heat,  of  various 
affections;  but  he  has  nowhere  fairly  kindled  him  with 
enthusiasm  or  melted  him  into  tenderness.  Writing  for 
the  world  at  large,  he  has  wisely  abstained  from  attempt- 
ing to  raise  any  passion  to  a  height  to  which  worldly 
people  could  not  be  transported,  and  contented  himself 
with  giving  his  reader  the  chance  of  feeling  as  a  brave, 
kind,  and  affectionate  gentleman  must  often  feel  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  his  existence,  without  trying  to  breathe 
into  him  either  that  lofty  enthusiasm  which  disdains  the 
ordinary  business  and  amusements  of  life,  or  that  quiet 

*  Erasmus  Darwin  (1731-1802),  author  of  The  Lovca  of  the 
Plants,  etc. 


64  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

and  deep  sensibility  -wliicli  unfits  for  most  of  its  pursuits. 

With  regard  to  diction  and  imagery,  too,  it  is  quite 
obvious  that  Mr.  Scott  has  not  aimed  at  writing  either 
in  a  very  pure  or  a  very  consistent  style.  He  seems  to 
have  been  anxious  only  to  strike,  and  to  be  easily  and 
universally  understood;  and  for  this  purpose  to  have 
culled  the  most  glittering  and  conspicious  expressions  of 
the  most  popular  authors,  and  to  have  interwoven  them 
in  splendid  confusion  with  his  own  nervous  diction  and 
irregular  versification.  Indifferent  whether  he  coins  or 
borrows,  and  drawing  with  equal  freedom  on  his  memory 
and  his  imagination,  he  goes  boldly  forward,  in  full  reli- 
ance on  a  never-failing  abundance,  and  dazzles  with  his 
richness  and  variety  even  those  who  are  most  apt  to  be 
offended  with  his  glare  and  irregularity.  There  is  nothing 
in  Mr.  Scott  of  the  severe  and  majestic  style  of  Milton, 
or  of  the  terse  and  fine  composition  of  Pope,  or  of  the 
elaborate  elegance  and  melody  of  Campbell,  or  even  of 
the  flowing  and  redundant  diction  of  Southey.  But  there 
is  a  medley  of  bright  images  and  glowing  words,  set  care- 
lessly and  loosely  together, — a  diction  tinged  successfully 
with  the  careless  richness  of  Shakespeare,  the  harshness 
and  antique  simplicity  of  the  old  romances,  the  homeli- 
ness of  vulgar  ballads  and  anecdotes,  and  the  sentimental 
glitter  of  the  most  modern  poetry, — passing  from  the 
borders  of  the  ludicrous  to  those  of  the  sublime,  alternately 
minute  and  energetic,  sometimes  artificial,  and  frequently 
negligent,  but  always  full  of  spirit  and  vivacity,  abound- 
ing in  images  that  are  striking,  at  first  sight,  to  minds 
of  every  contexture,  and  never  expressing  a  sentiment 
which  it  can  cost  the  most  ordinary  reader  any  exertion 
to  comprehend. 

Such  seem  to  be  the  leading  qualities  that  have  con- 
tributed to  Mr.  Scott's  popularity;  and,  as  some  of  them 
are  obviously  of  a  kind  to  diminish  his  merit  in  the  eyes 
of  more  fastidious  judges,  it  is  but  fair  to  complete 
this  view  of  his  peculiarities  by  a  hasty  notice  of  such 
of  them  as  entitle  him  to  unqualified  admiration.  And 
here  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  struck  with  that  vivifying 
spirit  of  strength  and  animation  which  pervades  all  the 
inequalities  of  his  composition,  and  keeps  constantly  on 
the  mind  of  the  reader  the  impression  of  great  power. 


JEFFREY  65 

spirit,  and  intrepidity.  There  is  nothing  cold,  creeping, 
or  feeble,  in  all  Mr.  Scott's  poetry, — ^no  laborious  littleness, 
or  puling  classical  affectation.  He  has  his  failures,  in- 
deed, like  other  people ;  but  he  always  attempts  vigorously, 
and  never  fails  in  his  immediate  object,  without  accom- 
plishing something  far  beyond  the  reach  of  an  ordinary 
writer.  Even  when  he  wanders  from  the  paths  of  pure 
taste,  he  leaves  behind  him  the  footsteps  of  a  powerful 
genius,  and  moulds  the  most  humble  of  his  materials 
into  a  form  worthy  of  a  nobler  substance.  Allied  to  this 
inherent  vigor  and  animation,  and  in  a  great  degree  de- 
rived from  it,  is  that  air  of  facility  and  freedom  which 
adds  so  peculiar  a  grace  to  most  of  Mr.  Scott's  composi- 
tions. There  is  certainly  no  living  poet  whose  works 
seem  to  come  from  him  with  so  much  ease,  or  who  so 
seldom  appears  to  labor,  even  in  the  most  burdensome 
parts  of  his  performance.  He  seems,  indeed,  never  to 
think  either  of  himself  or  his  reader,  but  to  be  completely 
identified  and  lost  in  the  personages  with  whom  he  is 
occupied;  and  the  attention  of  the  reader  is  consequently 
either  transferred,  unbroken,  to  their  adventures,  or,  if 
it  glance  back  for  a  moment  to  the  author,  it  is  only  to 
think  how  much  more  might  be  done  by  putting  forth 
that  strength  at  full,  which  has  without  effort  accom- 
plished so  many  wonders.  It  is  owing  partly  to  these 
qualities,  and  partly  to  the  great  variety  of  his  style, 
that  Mr.  Scott  is  much  less  frequently  tedious  than  any 
other  bulky  poet  with  whom  we  are  acquainted.  His  store 
of  images  is  so  copious  that  he  never  dwells  upon  one 
long  enough  to  produce  weariness  in  the  reader;  and, 
even  where  he  deals  in  borrowed  or  tawdry  wares,  the 
rapidity  of  his  transitions,  and  the  transient  glance  with 
which  he  is  satisfied  as  to  each,  leave  the  critic  no  time 
to  be  offended,  and  hurry  him  forward,  along  with  the 
multitude,  enchanted  with  the  brilliancy  of  the  exhibition. 
Thus  the  very  frequency  of  his  deviations  from  pure 
taste  comes,  in  some  sort,  to  constitute  their  apology,  and 
the  profusion  and  variety  of  his  faults  to  afford  a  new 
proof  of  his  genius. 

These,  we  think,  are  the  general  characteristics  of  Mr. 
Scott's  poetry.  Among  his  minor  peculiarities  we  might 
notice  his  singular  talent  for  description,  and  especially 


66  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

for  the  description  of  scenes  abounding  in  moiion  or 
action  of  any  kind.  In  this  department,  indeed,  we  con- 
ceive him  to  be  almost  without  a  rival,  either  among  mod- 
ern or  ancient  poets ;  and  the  character  and  process  of  his 
descriptions  are  as  extraordinary  as  their  effect  is  as- 
tonishing. He  places  before  the  eyes  of  his  readers  a  more 
distinct  and  complete  picture,  perhaps,  than  any  other  art- 
ist ever  presented  by  mere  words ;  and  yet  he  does  not  (like 
Crabbe)  enumerate  all  the  visible  parts  of  the  sub- 
ject with  any  degree  of  minuteness,  nor  confine  himself  by 
any  means  to  what  is  visible.  The  singular  merit  of  his 
delineations,  on  the  contrary,  consists  in  this, — that  with 
a  few  bold  and  abrupt  strokes  he  finishes  a  most  spirited 
outline,  and  then  instantly  kindles  it  by  the  sudden  light 
and  color  of  some  moral  afiFection.  There  are  none  of  his 
fine  descriptions,  accordingly  which  do  not  derive  a  great 
part  of  their  clearness  and  picturesque  effect,  as  well  as 
their  interest,  from  the  quantity  of  character  and  moral 
expression  which  is  thus  blended  with  their  details,  and 
which,  so  far  from  interrupting  the  conception  of  the 
external  object,  very  powerfully  stimulate  the  fancy  of 
the  reader  to  complete  it,  and  give  a  grace  and  a  spirit 
to  the  whole  representation,  of  which  we  do  not  know 
where  to  look  for  any  other  example. 

Another  very  striking  peculiarity  in  Mr.  Scott's  poetry 
is  the  air  of  freedom  and  nature  which  he  has  contrived 
to  impart  to  most  of  his  distinguished  characters,  and 
with  which  no  poet  more  modern  than  Shakespeare  has 
ventured  to  represent  personages  of  such  dignity.  We 
do  not  allude  here  merely  to  the  genuine  familiarity  and 
homeliness  of  many  of  his  scenes  and  dialogues,  but  to 
that  air  of  gaiety  and  playfulness  in  which  persons  of 
higli  rank  seem,  from  time  immemorial,  to  have  thought 
it  necessary  to  array,  not  their  courtesy  only,  but  their 
generosity  and  their  hostility.  This  tone  of  good  society 
Mr.  Scott  has  shed  over  his  higher  characters  with  great 
grace  and  effect,  and  has  in  this  way  not  only  made  hia 
representations  much  more  faithful  and  true  to  nature, 
but  has  very  agreeably  relieved  the  monotony  of  that 
tragic  solemnity  which  ordinary  writers  appear  to  think 
indispensable  to  the  dignity  of  poetical  heroes  and  hero- 
ines.   We  are  not  sure,  however,  whether  he  has  not  occa* 


JEFFREY  W 

sionally  exceeded  a  little  in  the  use  of  this  ornament, 
and  given,  now  and  then,  too  coquettish  and  trifling  a 
tone  to  discussions  of  weight  and  moment. 

Mr.  Scott  has  many  other  characteristic  excellences; 
but  we  have  already  detained  our  readers  too  long  with 
this  imperfect  sketch  of  his  poetical  character,  and  must 
proceed  without  further  delay  to  give  them  some  account 
of  the  work  which  is  now  before  us. 


WORDSWORTH'S   "EXCURSION" 
Francis  Jeffrey 

[This  review  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh  Revieio  for  Novem- 
ber, 1814.  When  he  reprinted  it  in  his  collected  essays,  Jeffrey 
added  a  note  in  which  he  said:  "I  have  spoken  in  many  places 
rather  too  bitterly  and  confidently  of  the  faults  of  Mr.  Words- 
worth's poetry;  and  forgetting  that,  even  on  my  own  view 
of  them,  they  were  but  faults  of  taste,  or  venial  self-partiality, 
have  sometimes  visited  them,  I  fear,  with  an  asperity  which 
should  be  reserved  for  objects  of  moral  reprobation.  If  I 
were  now  to  deal  with  the  whole  question  of  his  poetical 
merits,  though  my  judgment  might  not  be  substantially  dif- 
ferent, I  hope  I  should  repress  the  greater  part  of  these 
vivacitis  of  expression."  Coleridge  commented  severely  on 
the  review  in  that  section  of  the  Biographia  Literaria  entitled 
"Remarks  on  the  Present  Mode  of  Conducting  Critical 
Journals."] 

This  will  never  do.  It  bears  no  doubt  the  stamp  of 
the  author's  heart  and  fancy,  and  unfortunately  not  half 
so  visibly  as  that  of  his  peculiar  system.  His  former 
poems  were  intended  to  recommend  that  system,  and  to 
bespeak  favor  for  it  by  their  individual  merit;  but  this, 
we  suspect,  must  be  recommended  by  the  system,  and  can 
only  expect  to  succeed  where  it  has  been  previously  es- 
tablished. It  is  longer,  weaker,  and  tamer,  than  any  of 
Mr.  Wordsworth's  other  productions ;  with  less  boldness  of 
originality,  and  less  even  of  that  extreme  simplicity  and 
lowliness  of  tone  which  wavered  so  prettily,  in  the  Lyrical 
Ballads,  between  silliness  and  pathos.  We  have  imita- 
tions of  Cowper  and  even  of  Milton  here,  engrafted  on 
the  natural  drawl   of  the  Lakers,   and   all   diluted   into 


68  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

harmony  by  that  profuse  and  irrepressible  wordiness  which 
deluges  aU  the  blank  verse  of  this  school  of  poetry,  and 
lubricates  and  weakens  the  whole  structure  of  their  style. 

Though  it  fairly  fills  four  hundred  and  twenty  good 
quarto  pages,  without  note,  vignette,  or  any  sort  of  ex- 
traneous assistance,  it  is  stated  in  the  title — with  some- 
thing of  an  imprudent  candor — to  be  but  "a  portion"  of 
a  larger  work ;  and  in  the  preface,  where  an  attempt  is 
rather  unsuccessfully  made  to  explain  the  whole  design, 
it  is  still  more  rashly  disclosed  that  it  is  but  "a  part  of 
the  second  part  of  a  long  and  laborious  work" — which  is 
to  consist  of  three  parts.  What  Mr.  Wordsworth's  ideas 
of  length  are,  we  have  no  means  of  accurately  judging; 
but  we  cannot  help  suspecting  that  they  are  liberal,  to 
a  degree  that  will  alarm  the  weakness  of  most  modern 
readers.  As  far  as  we  can  gather  from  the  preface,  the 
entire  poem — or  one  of  them  (for  we  really  are  not  sure 
whether  there  is  to  be  one  or  two) — is  of  a  biographical 
nature,  and  is  to  contain  the  history  of  the  author's  mind, 
and  of  the  origin  and  progress  of  his  poetical  powers,  up 
to  the  period  when  they  were  sufficiently  matured  to  qual- 
ify him  for  the  great  work  on  which  he  has  been  so  long 
employed.  Now  the  quarto  before  us  contains  an  account 
of  one  of  his  youthful  rambles  in  the  vales  of  Cumberland, 
and  occupies  precisely  the  period  of  three  days!  so  that, 
by  the  use  of  a  very  powerful  calculus,  some  estimate 
may  be  formed  of  the  probable  extent  of  the  entire 
biography. 

This  small  specimen,  however,  and  the  statements  with 
which  it  is  prefaced,  have  been  sufficient  to  set  our  minds 
at  rest  in  one  particular.  The  case  of  Mr.  Wordsworth, 
we  perceive,  is  now  manifestly  hopeless ;  and  we  give  him 
up  as  altogether  incurable,  and  beyond  the  power  of  criti- 
cism. We  cannot  indeed  altogether  omit  taking  precau- 
tions now  and  then  against  the  spreading  of  the  malady ; 
but  for  himself,  thouigh  we  shall  watch  the  progress  of 
his  symptoms  as  a  matter  of  professional  curiosity  and 
instruction,  we  really  think  it  right  not  to  harass  him 
any  longer  with  nauseous  remedies,  but  rather  to  throw 
in  cordials  and  lenitives,  and  wait  in  patience  for  the 
natural  termination  of  the  disorder.  In  order  to  justify 
this  desertion  of  our  patient,  however,  it  is  proper  to  state 


JEFFREY  69 

why  -we  despair  of  the  success  of  a  more  active  practice. 

A  man  who  has  been  for  twenty  years  at  work  on  such 
matter  as  is  now  before  us,  and  who  comes  complacently 
forward  with  a  whole  quarto  of  it,  after  all  the  admoni- 
tions he  has  received,  cannot  reasonably  be  expected  to 
"change  his  hand,  or  check  his  pride,"  upon  the  sugges- 
tion of  far  weightier  monitors  than  we  can  pretend  to  be. 
Inveterate  habit  must  now  have  given  a  kind  of  sanctity 
to  the  errors  of  early  taste,  and  the  very  powers  of  which 
we  lament  the  perversion  have  probably  become  incapable 
of  any  other  application.  The  very  quantity,  too,  that  he 
has  written,  and  is  at  this  moment  working  up  for  publi- 
cation upon  the  old  pattern,  makes  it  almost  hopeless  to 
look  for  any  change  of  it.  All  this  is  so  much  capital 
already  sunk  in  the  concern,  which  must  be  sacrificed  if 
that  be  abandoned;  and  no  man  likes  to  give  up  for  lost 
the  tirfie  and  talent  and  labor  which  he  has  embodied 
in  any  permanent  production.  We  were  not  previously 
aware  of  these  obstacles  to  Mr.  Wordsworth's  conversion, 
and,  considering  the  peculiarities  of  his  former  writings 
merely  as  the  result  of  certain  wanton  and  capricious 
experiments  on  public  taste  and  indulgence,  conceived  it 
to  be  our  duty  to  discourage  their  repetition  by  all  the 
means  in  our  power.  We  now  see  clearly,  however,  how 
the  case  stands,  and,  making  up  our  minds,  though  with 
the  most  sincere  pain  and  reluctance,  to  consider  him  as 
finally  lost  to  the  good  cause  of  poetry,  shall  endeavor  to 
be  thankful  for  the  occasional  gleams  of  tenderness  and 
beauty  which  the  natural  force  of  his  imagination  and 
affections  must  still  shed  over  all  his  productions,  and 
to  which  we  shall  ever  turn  with  delight,  in  spite  of  the 
affectation  and  mysticism  and  prolixity  with  which  they 
are  so  abundantly  contrasted. 

Long  habits  of  seclusion,  and  an  excessive  ambition  of 
originality,  can  alone  account  for  the  disproportion  which 
seems  to  exist  between  this  author's  taste  and  his  genius, 
or  for  the  devotion  with  which  he  has  sacrificed  so  many 
precious  gifts  at  the  shrine  of  those  paltry  idols  which  he 
has  set  up  for  himself  among  his  lakes  and  mountains. 
Solitary  musings,  amidst  such  scenes,  might  no  doubt 
be  expected  to  nurse  up  the  mind  to  the  majesty  of  poetical 
conception  (though  it  is  remarkable  that  all  the  greater 


70  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

poets  lived,  or  had  lived,  in  the  full  current  of  society) ; 
but  the  collision  of  equal  minds,  the  admonition  of  pre- 
vailing impressions,  seems  necessary  to  reduce  its  redund- 
ancies, and  repress  that  tendency  to  extravagance  or 
puerility,  into  which  the  self-indulgence  and  self-admira- 
tion of  genius  is  so  apt  to  be  betrayed,  when  it  is  allowed 
to  wanton,  without  awe  or  restraint,  in  the  triumph  and 
delight  of  its  own  intoxication.  That  its  flights  should 
be  graceful  and  glorious  in  the  eyes  of  men,  it  seems 
almost  to  be  necessary  that  they  should  be  made  in  the 
consciousness  that  men's  eyes  are  to  behold  them,  and  that 
the  inward  transport  and  vigor  by  which  they  are  inspired 
should  be  tempered  by  an  occasional  reference  to  what 
will  be  thought  of  them  by  those  ultimate  dispensers  of 
glory.  An  habitual  and  general  knowledge  of  the  few 
settled  and  permanent  maxims  which  form  the  canon  of 
general  taste  in  all  large  and  polished  societies — a  certain 
tact,  which  informs  us  at  once  that  many  things  which 
we  still  love  and  are  moved  by  in  secret  must  necessarily 
be  despised  as  childish,  or  derided  as  absurd,  in  all  such 
societies — though  it  will  not  stand  in  the  place  of  genius, 
seems  necessary  to  the  success  of  its  exertions,  and,  though 
it  will  never  enable  any  one  to  produce  the  higher  beauties 
of  art,  can  alone  secure  the  talent  which  does  produce 
them  from  errors  that  must  render  it  useless.  Those 
who  have  most  of  the  talent,  however,  commonly  acquire 
this  knowledge  with  the  greatest  facility;  and  if  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  instead  of  confining  himself  almost  entirely 
to  the  society  of  the  dalesmen  and  cottagers  and  little 
children  who  form  the  subjects  of  his  book,  had  conde- 
scended to  mingle  a  little  more  with  the  people  that  were 
to  read  and  judge  of  it,  we  cannot  help  thinking  that  its 
texture  would  have  been  considerably  improved.  At  least 
it  appears  to  us  to  be  absolutely  impossible  that  any  one 
who  had  lived  or  mixed  familiarly  with  men  of  literature 
and  ordinary  judgment  in  poetry  (of  course  we  exclude 
the  coadjutors  and  disciples  of  his  own  school)  could 
ever  have  fallen  into  such  gross  faults,  or  so  long  mis- 
taken them  for  beauties.  His  first  essays  we  looked  upon 
in  a  good  degree  as  poetical  paradoxes,  maintained  ex- 
perimentally, in  order  to  display  talent  and  court  noto- 
riety, and  80  maintained  with  no  more  serious  belief  in 


JEFFEEY  71 

their  truth  than  is  usually  generated  by  an  ingenious 
and  animated  defence  of  other  paradoxes.  But  when 
we  find  that  he  has  been  for  twenty  years  exclusively 
employed  upon  articles  of  this  very  fabric,  and  that  he 
has  still  enough  raw  material  on  hand  to  keep  him  so 
employed  for  twenty  years  to  come,  we  cannot  refuse  him 
the  justice  of  believing  that  he  is  a  sincere  convert  to  his 
own  system,  and  must  ascribe  the  peculiarities  of  his 
composition,  not  to  any  transient  affectation  or  accidental 
caprice  of  imagination,  but  to  a  settled  perversity  of 
taste  or  understanding,  which  has  been  fostered,  if  not 
altogether  created,  by  the  circumstances  to  which  we  have 
alluded. 

The  volume  before  us,  if  we  were  to  describe  it  very 
shortly,  we  should  characterize  as  a  tissue  of  moral  and 
devotional  ravings,  in  which  innumerable  changes  are 
rung  upon  a  few  very  simple  and  familiar  ideas,  but  with 
such  an  accompaniment  of  long  words,  long  sentences, 
and  unwieldy  phrases,  and  such  a  hubbub  of  strained 
raptures  and  fantastical  sublimities,  that  it  is  often  diffi- 
cult for  the  most  skilful  and  attentive  student  to  obtain 
a  glimpse  of  the  author's  meaning,  and  altogether  im- 
possible for  an  ordinary  reader  to  conjecture  what  he  is 
about.  Moral  and  religious  enthusiasm,  though  undoubt- 
edly poetical  emotions,  are  at  the  same  time  but  dangerous 
inspirers  of  poetry;  nothing  being  so  apt  to  run  into 
interminable  dulness  or  mellifluous  extravagance,  without 
giving  the  unfortunate  author  the  slightest  intimation  of 
his  danger.  His  laudable  zeal  for  the  efficacy  of  his 
preachments  he  very  naturally  mistakes  for  the  ardor  of 
poetical  inspiration,  and,  while  dealing  out  the  high  words 
and  glowing  phrases  which  are  so  readily  supplied  by 
themes  of  this  description,  can  scarcely  avoid  believing 
that  he  is  eminently  original  and  impressive.  All  sorts 
of  commonplace  notions  and  expressions  are  sanctified  in 
his  eyes  by  the  sublime  ends  for  which  they  are  employed, 
and  the  mystical  verbiage  of  the  Methodist  pulpit  is  re- 
peated, till  the  speaker  entertains  no  doubt  that  he  is 
the  elected  organ  of  divine  truth  and  persuasion.  But  if 
such  be  the  common  hazards  of  seeking  inspiration  from 
those  potent  fountains,  it  may  easily  be  conceived  what 
chance  Mr.  Wordsworth  had  of  escaping  their  enchant-^ 


72  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

ment,  with  his  natural  propensities  to  wordiness,  and  his 
unlucky  habit  of  debasing  pathos  with  vulgarity.  The 
fact  accordingly  is  that  in  this  production  he  is  more 
obscure  than  a  Pindaric  poet  of  the  seventeenth  century,^ 
and  more  verbose  "than  even  himself  of  yore";  while  the 
wilfulness  with  which  he  persists  in  choosing  his  exam- 
ples of  intellectual  dignity  and  tenderness  exclusively 
from  the  lowest  ranks  of  society  will  be  sufficiently  ap- 
parent from  the  circumstance  of  his  having  thought  fit  to 
make  his  chief  prolocutor  in  this  poetical  dialogue,  and 
chief  advocate  of  Providence  and  Virtue,  an  old  Scotch 
peddler, — retired  indeed  from  business,  but  still  rambling 
about  in  his  former  haunts,  and  gossiping  among  his  old 
customers,  without  his  pack  on  his  shoulders.  The  other 
persons  of  the  drama  are  a  retired  military  chaplain^ 
who  has  grown  half  an  atheist  and  half  a  misanthrope, 
the  wife  of  an  unprosperous  weaver,  a  servant  girl  with 
her  natural  child,  a  parish  pauper,  and  one  or  two  other 
personages  of  equal  rank  and  dignity. 

The  character  of  the  work  is  decidedly  didactic,  and 
more  than  nine  tenths  of  it  are  occupied  with  a  species 
of  dialogue,  or  rather  a  series  of  long  sermons  or 
harangues  which  pass  between  the  peddler,  the  author, 
the  old  chaplain,  and  a  worthy  vicar  who  entertains  the 
whole  party  at  dinner  on  the  last  day  of  their  excursion. 
The  incidents  which  occur  in  the  course  of  it  are  as  few 
and  trifling  as  can  well  be  imagined,  and  those  which 
the  different  speakers  narrate  in  the  course  of  their 
discourses  are  introduced  rather  to  illustrate  their  argu- 
ments or  opinions  than  for  any  interest  they  are  supposed 
to  possess  of  their  own.  The  doctrine  which  the  work  is 
intended  to  enforce,  we  are  by  no  means  certain  that  we 
have  discovered.  In  so  far  as  we  can  collect,  however,  it 
seems  to  be  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  old  familiar 
one,  that  a  firm  belief  in  the  providence  of  a  wise  and 
beneficent  Being  must  be  our  great  stay  and  support  under 
all  afflictions  and  perplexities  upon  earth,  and  that  there 
are  indications  of  his  power  and  goodness  in  all  the  aspects 
of  the  visible  universe,  whether  living  or  inanimate,  every 
part   of   which   should   therefore  be   regarded   with   love 

>  Such  as  Abraham  Cowley,  and  others  who  cultivated  the 
"Pindaric  ode." 


JEFFKEY  78 

and  reverence,  as  exponents  of  those  great  attributes.  We 
can  testify,  at  least,  that  these  salutary  and  important 
truths  are  inculcated  at  far  greater  length,  and  with  more 
repetitions,  than  in  any  ten  volumes  of  sermons  that  we 
ever  perused.  It  is  also  maintained,  with  equal  concise- 
ness and  originality,  that  there  is  frequently  much  good 
sense,  as  well  as  much  enjoyment,  in  the  humbler  con- 
ditions of  life,  and  that,  in  spite  of  great  vices  and 
abuses,  there  is  a  reasonable  allowance  both  of  happiness 
and  goodness  in  society  at  large.  If  there  be  any  deeper 
or  more  recondite  doctrines  in  Mr.  Wordsworth's  book, 
we  must  confess  that  they  have  escaped  us ;  and,  convinced 
as  we  are  of  the  truth  and  soundness  of  those  to  which 
we  have  alluded,  we  cannot  help  thinking  that  they  might 
have  been  better  enforced  with  less  parade  and  prolixity. 
His  effusions  on  what  may  be  called  the  physiognomy 
of  external  nature,  or  its  moral  and  theological  ex- 
pression, are  eminently  fantastic,  obscure  and  affected. — 
It  is  quite  time,  however,  that  we  should  give  the  reader 
a  more  particular  account  of  this  singular  perform- 
ance. 

It  opens  with  a  picture  of  the  author  toiling  across  a 
bare  common  in  a  hot  summer  day,  and  reaching  at  last 
a  ruined  hut  surrounded  with  tall  trees,  where  he  meets 
by  appointment  with  a  hale  old  man,  with  an  iron-pointed 
staff  lying  beside  him.  Then  follows  a  retrospective  ac- 
count of  their  first  acquaintance — formed,  it  seems,  when 
the  author  was  at  a  village  school,  and  his  aged  friend 
occupied  "one  room, — the  fifth  part  of  a  house"  in  the 
neighborhood.  After  this,  we  have  the  history  of  this 
reverend  person  at  no  small  length.  He  was  born,  we 
are  happy  to  find,  in  Scotland — among  the  hills  of  Athol; 
and  his  mother,  after  his  father's  death,  married  the  par- 
ish schoolmaster,  so  that  he  was  taught  his  letters  be- 
times. But  then,  as  it  is  here  set  forth  with  much  sol- 
emnity, 

From  hi8  sixth  year,  the  boy  of  whom  I  speak 
In  summer  tended  cattle  on  the  hills! 

And  again,  a  few  pages  after,  that  there  may  be  no  risk 
of  mistake  as  to  a  point  of  such  essential  importance — 


74  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

From  early  childhood,  even,  as  hath  been  said, 
From  his  sixth  year,  he  had  been  sent  abroad, 
In  summer — ^to  tend  herds!     Such  was  bis  task! 

In  the  course  of  this  occupation  it  is  next  recorded  that 
he  acquired  such  a  taste  for  rural  scenery  and  open  air 
that,  when  he  was  sent  to  teach  a  school  in  a  neighboring 
village,  he  found  it  "a  misery  to  him";  and  determined 
to  embrace  the  more  romantic  occupation  of  a  peddler — 
or,  as  Mr.  Wordsworth  more  musically  expresses  it, 

A  vagrant  merchant,  bent  beneath  his  load; 

— and  in  the  course  of  his  peregrinations  had  acquired 
a  very  large  acquaintance,  which,  after  he  had  given  up 
dealing,  he  frequently  took  a  summer  ramble  to  visit. 

The  author,  on  coming  up  to  this  interesting  personage, 
finds  him  sitting  with  his  eyes  half  shut:  and,  not  being 
quite  sure  whether  he  is  asleep  or  awake,  stands  "some 
minutes'  space"  in  silence  beside  him.  "At  length,"  says 
he,  with  his  own  delightful  simplicity — 

At  length  I  hail'd  him — seeing  that  his  hat 
Was  moist  with  water-drops,  as  if  the  brim 
Had  newly  scoop'd  a  running  stream! 

.  .  .  "Tis,'  said  I,  'a  burning  day! 
My  lips  are  parch'd  with  thirst;  but  you,  I  guess, 
Have  somewhere  found  relief.' 

Upon  this,  the  benevolent  old  man  points  him  out,  not  a 
running  stream,  but  a  well  in  a  corner,  to  which  the  au- 
thor repairs;  and,  after  minutely  describing  its  situa- 
tion, beyond  a  broken  wall,  and  between  two  alders  that 
"grew  in  a  cold  damp  nook,"  he  thus  faithfully  chronicles 
the  process  of  his  return : 

My  thirst  I  slak'd;  and  from  the  cheerless  spot 
Withdrawing,  straightway  to  the  shade  return'd, 
Where  sate  the  old  man  on  the  cottage  bench. 

The  Peddler  then  gives  an  account  of  the  last  inhab- 
itants of  the  deserted  cottage  beside  them.  These  were 
a  good  industrious  weaver  and  his  wife  and  children. 
Th^  were  very  happy  for  a  while,  till  sickness  and  want 


JEFFREY  75 

of  work  came  upon  them;  and  then  the  father  enlisted 
as  a  soldier,  and  the  wife  pined  in  that  lonely  cottage, 
growing  every  year  more  careless  and  desponding,  as  her 
anxiety  and  fears  for  her  absent  husband,  of  whom  no 
tidings  ever  reached  her,  accumulated.  Her  children 
died,  and  left  her  cheerless  and  alone;  and  at  last  she 
died  also;  and  the  cottage  fell  to  decay.  We  must  say 
that  there  is  very  considerable  pathos  in  the  telling  of 
this  simple  story,  and  that  they  who  can  get  over  the  re- 
pugnance excited  by  the  triteness  of  its  incidents,  and 
the  lowness  of  its  objects,  will  not  fail  to  be  struck  with 
the  author's  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  the  power 
he  possesses  of  stirring  up  its  deepest  and  gentlest  sympa- 
thies. His  prolixity,  indeed,  it  is  not  so  easy  to  get  over. 
This  little  story  fills  about  twenty-five  quarto  pages,  and 
abounds,  of  course,  with  mawkish  sentiment  and  details 
of  preposterous  minuteness.  When  the  tale  is  told,  the 
travelers  take  their  staffs,  and  end  their  first  day's  jour- 
ney, without  further  adventure,  at  a  little  inn. 

The  Second  Book  sets  them  forward  betimes  in  the 
morning.  They  pass  by  a  village  wake;  and  as  they  ap- 
proach a  more  solitary  part  of  the  mountains,  the  old 
man  tells  the  author  that  he  is  taking  him  to  see  an  old 
friend  of  his,  who  had  formerly  been  chaplain  to  a  High- 
land regiment — had  lost  a  beloved  wife — been  roused  from 
his  dejection  by  the  first  enthusiasm  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution— had  emigrated,  on  its  miscarriage,  to  America, 
and  returned  disgusted  to  hide  himself  in  the  retreat  to 
which  they  were  now  ascending.  That  retreat  is  then 
most  tediously  described — a  smooth  green  valley  in  the 
heart  of  the  mountain,  without  trees,  and  with  only  one 
dwelling.  Just  as  they  get  sight  of  it  from  the  ridge 
above,  they  see  a  funeral  train  proceeding  from  the  soli- 
tary abode,  and  hurry  on  with  some  apprehension  for 
the  fate  of  the  amiable  misanthrope — whom  they  find, 
however,  in  very  tolerable  condition  at  the  door,  and 
learn  that  the  funeral  was  that  of  an  aged  pauper  who 
had  been  boarded  out  by  the  parish  in  that  cheap  farm- 
house, and  had  died  in  consequence  of  long  exposure  to 
heavy  rain.  The  old  chaplain,  or,  as  Mr.  Wordsworth 
is  pleased  to  call  him,  the  Solitary,  tells  this  dull  story 
at  prodigious  length;  and  after  giving  an  inflated  de- 


Te  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

scription  of  an  effect  of  mountain  mists  in  the  evening 
sun,  treats  his  visitors  with  a  rustic  dinner, — and  they 
•walk  out  to  the  fields  at  the  close  of  the  second  book. 

The  Third  makes  no  progress  in  the  excursion.  It  is 
entirely  filled  with  moral  and  religious  conversation  and 
debate,  and  with  a  more  ample  detail  of  the  Solitary's 
past  life  than  had  been  given  in  the  sketch  of  his  friend. 
The  conversation  is,  in  our  judgment,  exceedingly  dull 
and  mystical,  and  the  Solitary's  confessions  insufferably 
diffuse.  Yet  there  is  occasionally  very  considerable  force 
of  writing  and  tenderness  of  sentiment  in  this  part  of 
the  work. 

The  Fourth  Book  is  also  filled  with  dialogues,  ethical 
and  theological;  and,  with  the  exception  of  some  brilliant 
and  forcible  expressions  here  and  there,  consists  of  an 
exposition  of  truisms,  more  cloudy,  wordy,  and  incon- 
ceivably prolix  than  anything  we  ever  met  with. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  Fifth  Book  they  leave  the  soli- 
tary valley,  taking  its  pensive  inhabitant  along  with 
them,  and  stray  on  to  where  the  landscape  sinks  down 
into  milder  features,  till  they  arrive  at  a  church  which 
stands  on  a  moderate  elevation  in  the  center  of  a  wide 
and  fertile  vale.  Here  they  meditate  for  a  while  among 
the  monuments,  till  the  Vicar  comes  out  and  joins  them; 
and,  recognizing  the  Peddler  for  an  old  acquaintance, 
mixes  graciously  in  the  conversation,  which  proceeds  in 
a  very  edifying  manner  till  the  close  of  the  book. 

The  Sixth  contains  a  choice  obituary,  or  characteristic 
account  of  several  of  the  persons  who  lie  buried  before 
this  group  of  moralizers : — an  unsuccessful  lover,  who  had 
found  consolation  in  natural  history, — a  miner,  who 
worked  on  for  twenty  years,  in  despite  of  universal  ridi- 
cule, and  at  last  found  the  vein  he  had  expected, — ^two 
political  enemies  reconciled  in  old  age  to  each  other, — 
an  old  female  miser, — a  seduced  damsel, — and  two  widow- 
ers, one  who  had  devoted  himself  to  the  education  of  his 
daughters,  and  one  who  had  preferred  marrying  a  pru- 
dent middle-aged  woman  to  take  care  of  them. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  Eighth  Book  the  worthy  vicar 
expresses,  in  the  words  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  own  epitome, 
"his  apprehensions  that  he  had  detained  his  auditors  too 
long — invites  them  to  his  house — Solitary,  disinclined  to 


JEFFREY  77 

comply,  rallies  the  Wanderer,  and  somewhat  playfully 
draws  a  comparison  between  his  itinerant  profession  and 
that  of  a  knight-errant — which  leads  to  the  Wanderer 
giving  an  account  of  changes  in  the  country,  from  the 
manufacturing  spirit — its  favorable  effects — the  other  side 
of  the  picture,"  etc.,  etc.  After  these  very  poetical  themes 
are  exhausted,  they  all  go  into  the  house,  where  they  are 
introduced  to  the  vicar's  wife  and  daughter;  and  while 
they  sit  chatting  in  the  parlor  over  a  family  dinner,  his 
son  and  one  of  his  companions  come  in  with  a  fine  dish 
of  trouts  piled  on  a  blue  slate,  and,  after  being  caressed 
by  the  company,  are  sent  to  dinner  in  the  nursery.  This 
ends  the  eighth  book. 

The  Ninth  and  last  is  chiefly  occupied  with  a  mystical 
discourse  of  the  Peddler,  who  maintains  that  the  whole 
universe  is  animated  by  an  active  principle,  the  noblest 
seat  of  which  is  in  the  human  soul,  and  moreover,  that 
the  final  end  of  old  age  is  to  train  and  enable  us 

To  hear  the  mighty  stream  of  Tendency 
Uttering,  for  elevation  of  our  thought, 
A  clear  sonorous  voice,  inaudible 
To  the  vast  multitude  whose  doom  it  is 
To  run  the  giddy  round  of  vain  delight — 

with  other  matters  as  luminous  and  emphatic.  The 
hostess  at  length  breaks  off  the  harangue  by  proposing 
that  they  should  all  make  a  little  excursion  on  the  lake, 
and  they  embark  accordingly;  and,  after  navigating  for 
some  time  along  its  shores,  and  drinking  tea  on  a  little 
island,  land  at  last  on  a  remote  promontory,  from  which 
they  see  the  sun  go  down,  and  listen  to  a  solemn  and 
pious,  but  rather  long,  prayer  from  the  vicar.  They 
then  walk  back  to  the  parsonage  door,  where  the  author 
and  his  friend  propose  to  spend  the  evening;  but  the 
Solitary  prefers  walking  back  in  the  moonshine  to  his 
own  valley,  after  promising  to  take  another  ramble  with 
them, 

If  time,  with  free  consent,  be  yours  to  give. 

And  season  favours. 

— And  here  the  publication  somewhat  abruptly  closes.'  .  .  . 

"  The  omitted  portion  of  the  review  consists  of  specimen  pas- 
sages exemplifying  the  poet's  style,  with  comments. 


78  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Nobody  can  be  more  disposed  to  do  justice  to  the  great 
powers  of  Mr.  Wordsworth  than  we  are;  and  from  the 
first  time  that  he  came  before  us  down  to  the  present  mo- 
ment we  have  uniformly  testified  in  their  favor,  and  as- 
signed indeed  our  high  sense  of  their  value  as  the  chief 
ground  of  the  bitterness  with  which  we  resented  their 
perversion.  That  perversion,  however,  is  now  far  more 
visible  than  their  original  dignity;  and  while  we  collect 
the  fragments,  it  is  impossible  not  to  mourn  over  the 
ruins  from  which  we  are  condemned  to  pick  them.  If 
any  one  should  doubt  of  the  existence  of  such  a  perver- 
sion, or  be  disposed  to  dispute  about  the  instances  we 
have  hastily  brought  forward,  we  would  just  beg  leave  to 
refer  him  to  the  general  plan  and  character  of  the  poem 
now  before  us.  Why  should  Mr.  Wordsworth  have  made 
his  hero  a  superannuated  peddler?  What  but  the  most 
wretched  affectation,  or  provoking  perversity  of  taste, 
could  induce  any  one  to  place  his  chosen  advocate  of 
wisdom  and  virtue  in  so  absurd  and  fantastic  a  condi- 
tion ?  Did  Mr.  Wordsworth  really  imagine  that  his  favor- 
ite doctrines  were  likely  to  gain  anything  in  point  of 
effect  or  authority  by  being  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  per- 
son accustomed  to  higgle  about  tape  or  brass  sleeve-but- 
tons ?  Or  is  it  not  plain  that,  independent  of  the  ridicule 
and  disgust  which  such  a  personification  must  excite  in 
many  of  his  readers,  its  adoption  exposes  the  work 
throughout  to  the  charge  of  revolting  incongruity  and 
utter  disregard  of  probability  or  nature?  For,  after  he 
has  thus  wilfully  debased  his  moral  teacher  by  a  low 
occupation,  is  there  one  word  that  he  puts  into  his  mouth, 
or  one  sentiment  of  which  he  makes  him  the  organ,  that 
has  the  most  remote  reference  to  that  occupation?  Is 
there  anything  in  his  learned,  abstracted,  and  logical 
harangues  that  savors  of  the  calling  that  is  ascribed  to 
him  ?  Are  any  of  their  materials  such  as  a  peddler  could 
possibly  have  dealt  in?  Are  the  manners,  the  diction, 
the  sentiments,  in  any  the  very  smallest  degree  accom- 
modated to  a  person  in  that  condition?  or  are  they  not 
eminently  and  conspicuously  such  as  could  not  by  pos- 
sibility belong  to  it?  A  man  who  went  about  selling 
flannel  and  pocket-handkerchiefs  in  this  lofty  diction 
would  soon  frighten  away  all  his  customers,  and  would 


SCOTT  79 

infallibly  pass  either  for  a  madman  or  for  some  learned 
and  affected  gentleman  who,  in  a  frolic,  had  taken  up  a 
character  which  he  was  peculiarly  ill  qualified  for  sup- 
porting. 

The  absurdity  in  this  case,  we  think,  is  palpable  and 
glaring;  but  it  is  exactly  of  the  same  nature  with  that 
which  infects  the  whole  substance  of  the  work, — a  puerile 
ambition  of  singularity  engrafted  on  an  unlucky  predi- 
lection for  truisms,  and  an  affected  passion  for  simplicity 
and  humble  life,  most  awkwardly  combined  with  a  taste 
for  mystical  refinements  and  all  the  gorgeousness  of  ob- 
scure phraseology.  His  taste  for  simplicity  is  evinced 
by  sprinkling  up  and  down  his  interminable  declamations 
a  few  descriptions  of  baby-houses,  and  of  old  hats  with 
wet  brims;  and  his  amiable  partiality  for  humble  life, 
by  assuring  us  that  a  wordy  rhetorician,  who  talks  about 
Thebes  and  allegorizes  all  the  heathen  mythology,  was 
once  a  peddler,  and  making  him  break  in  upon  his  mag- 
nificent orations  with  two  or  three  awkward  notices  of 
something  that  Ee  had  seen  when  selling  winter  raiment 
about  the  country,  or  of  the  changes  in  the  state  of  soci- 
ety which  had  almost  annihilated  his  former  calling. 


MISS  AUSTEN'S  NOVELS 

Walter  Scott 

[This  review  (of  Emma)  appeared  in  the  Quarterly  Review 
for  October,  1815,  In  the  opening  paragraphs  Scott  briefly 
and  banteringly  discussed  the  popularity  of  prose  fiction.] 

...  In  its  first  appearance,  the  novel  was  the  legiti- 
mate child  of  the  romance;  and  though  the  manners  and 
general  turn  of  the  composition  were  altered  so  as  to 
suit  modern  times,  the  author  remained  fettered  by  many 
peculiarities  derived  from  the  original  style  of  romantic 
fiction.  These  may  be  chiefly  traced  in  the  conduct  of 
the  narrative,  and  the  tone  of  sentiment  attributed  to 
the  fictitious  personages.    On  the  first  point,  although 

The  talisman  and  magic  wand  were  broke, 
Knights,  dwarfs,  and  genii  vanish'd  into  smoke. 


80  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

still  the  reader  expected  to  peruse  a  course  of  adventures 
of  a  nature  more  interesting  and  extraordinary  than  those 
which  occur  in  his  own  life  or  that  of  his  next-door  neigh- 
bors. The  hero  no  longer  defeated  armies  by  his  single 
sword,  clove  giants  to  the  chins,  or  gained  kingdoms. 
But  he  was  expected  to  go  through  perils  by  sea  and  land, 
to  be  steeped  in  poverty,  to  be  tried  by  temptation,  to 
be  exposed  to  the  alternate  vicissitudes  of  adversity  and 
prosperity,  and  his  life  was  a  troubled  scene  of  suffering 
and  achievement.  Few  novelists,  indeed,  adventured  to 
deny  to  the  hero  his  final  hour  of  tranquillity  and  happi- 
ness, though  it  was  the  prevailing  fashion  never  to  relieve 
him  out  of  his  last  and  most  dreadful  distress  until  the 
finishing  chapters  of  his  history;  so  that,  although  his 
prosperity  in  the  record  of  his  life  was  short,  we  were 
bound  to  believe  it  was  long  and  uninterrupted  when 
the  author  had  done  with  him.  The  heroine  was  usually 
condemned  to  equal  hardships  and  hazards.  She  was  reg- 
ularly exposed  to  being  forcibly  carried  off  like  a  Sabine 
virgin  by  some  frantic  admirer.  And  even  if  she  escaped 
the  terrors  of  masked  ruffians,  an  insidious  ravisher,  a 
cloak  wrapped  forcibly  around  her  head,  and  a  coach  with 
the  blinds  up  driving  she  could  not  conjecture  whither, 
she  had  still  her  share  of  wandering,  of  poverty,  of 
obloquy,  of  seclusion,  and  of  imprisonment,  and  was  fre- 
quently extended  upon  a  bed  of  sickness,  and  reduced  to 
her  last  shilling  before  the  author  condescended  to  shield 
her  from  persecution.  In  all  these  dread  contingencies 
the  mind  of  the  reader  was  expected  to  sympathize,  since 
by  incidents  so  much  beyond  the  bounds  of  his  ordinary 
experience  his  wonder  and  interest  ought  at  once  to  be 
excited.  But  gradually  he  became  familiar  with  the  land 
of  fiction,  the  adventures  of  which  he  assimilated  not  with 
those  of  real  life,  but  with  each  other.  Let  the  distress 
of  the  hero  or  heroine  be  ever  so  great,  the  reader  reposed 
an  imperturbable  confidence  in  the  talents  of  the  author, 
who,  as  he  had  plunged  them  into  distress,  would  in  his 
own  good  time,  and  when  things,  as  Tony  Lumpkin  says, 
were  in  a  concatenation  accordingly,  bring  his  favorites 
out  of  all  their  troubles.  Mr.  Crabbe  has  expressed  his 
own  and  our  feelings  excellently  on  this  subject : 


SCOTT  81 

For  should  we  grant  these  beauties  all  endure 

Severest  pangs,  they've  still  the  speediest  cure; 

Before  one  charm  be  wither'd  from  the  face, 

Except  the  bloom  which  shall  again  have  place, 

In  wedlock  ends  each  wish,  in  triumph  all  disgrace; 

And  life  to  come,  we  fairly  may  suppose. 

One  light  bright  contrast  to  these  wild  dark  woes.* 

In,  short,  the  author  of  novels  was,  in  former  times,  ex- 
pected to  tread  pretty  much  in  the  limits  between  the 
concentric  circles  of  probability  and  possibility;  and  as 
he  was  not  permitted  to  transgress  the  latter,  his  narra- 
tive, to  make  amends,  almost  always  went  beyond  the 
bounds  of  the  former.  Now  although  it  may  be  urged 
that  the  vicissitudes  of  human  life  have  occasionally  led 
an  individual  through  as  many  scenes  of  singular  fortune 
as  are  represented  in  the  most  extravagant  of  these  fic- 
tions, still  the  causes  and  personages  acting  on  these 
changes  have  varied  with  the  progress  of  the  adventur- 
er's fortune,  and  do  not  present  that  combined  plot  (the 
object  of  every  skilful  novelist)  in  which  all  the  more 
interesting  individuals  of  the  dramatis  persoruB  have 
their  appropriate  share  in  the  action  and  in  bringing 
about  the  catastrophe.  Here,  even  more  than  in  its  vari- 
ous and  violent  changes  for  fortune,  rests  the  improba- 
bility of  the  novel.  The  life  of  man  rolls  forth  like  a 
stream  from  the  fountain,  or  it  spreads  out  into  tran- 
quillity like  a  placid  or  stagnant  lake.  In  the  latter  case, 
the  individual  grows  old  among  the  characters  with  whom 
he  was  bom,  and  is  contemporary, — shares  precisely  the 
sort  of  weal  and  woe  to  which  his  birth  destined  him, — 
moves  in  the  same  circle, — and,  allowing  for  the  change 
of  seasons,  is  influenced  by  and  influences  the  same  class 
of  persons  by  which  he  was  originally  surrounded.  The 
man  of  mark  and  of  adventure,  on  the  contrary,  resem- 
bles in  the  course  of  his  life  the  river  whose  mid-current 
and  discharge  into  the  ocean  are  widely  removed  from 
each  other,  as  well  as  from  the  rocks  and  wild  flowers 
which  its  fountains  first  reflected ;  violent  changes  of  time, 
of  place,  and  of  circumstances  hurry  him  forward  from 
one  scene  to  another,  and  his  adventures  will  usually  be 

'From  The  Borough,  xx  ("Ellen  Orford"). 


82  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

found  only  connected  with  each  other  because  •ftiey  have 
happened  to  the  same  individual.  Such  a  history  resem- 
bles an  ingenious,  fictitious  narrative,  exactly  in  the  de- 
gree in  which  an  old  dramatic  chronicle  of  the  life  and 
death  of  some  distinguished  character,  where  all  the 
various  agents  appear  and  disappear  as  in  the  page  of 
history,  approaches  a  regular  drama,  in  which  every  per- 
son introduced  plays  an  appropriate  part,  and  every  point 
of  the  action  tends  to  one  common  catastrophe. 

We  return  to  the  second  broad  line  of  distinction  be- 
tween the  novel,  as  formerly  composed,  and  real  life, — 
the  difference,  namely,  of  the  sentiments.  The  novelist 
professed  to  give  an  imitation  of  nature,  but  it  was,  as 
the  French  say,  la  belle  nature.  Human  beings,  indeed, 
were  presented,  but  in  the  most  sentimental  mood,  and 
with  minds  purified  by  a  sensibility  which  often  verged 
on  extravagance.  In  the  serious  class  of  novels,  the  hero 
was  usually 

A  knight  of  love,  who  never  broke  a  vow. 

And  although  in  those  of  a  more  humorous  cast  he  was 
permitted  a  license,  borrowed  either  from  real  life  or 
from  the  libertinism  of  the  drama,  still  a  distinction  was 
demanded  even  from  Peregrine  Pickle,  or  Tom  Jones  ;2 
and  the  hero,  in  every  folly  of  which  he  might  be  guilty, 
was  studiously  vindicated  from  the  charge  of  infidelity 
of  the  heart.  The  heroine  was,  of  course,  still  more  im- 
maculate; and  to  have  conferred  her  affections  upon  any 
other  than  the  lover  to  whom  the  reader  had  destined 
her  from  their  first  meeting  would  have  been  a  crime 
against  sentiment  which  no  author  of  moderate  prudence 
would  have  hazarded,  under  the  old  regime. 

Here,  therefore,  we  have  two  essential  and  important 
circumstances  in  which  the  earlier  novels  differed  from 
those  now  in  fashion,  and  were  more  nearly  assimilated 
to  the  old  romances.  And  there  can  be  no  doubt  that, 
by  the  studied  involution  and  extrication  of  the  story, 
by  the  combination  of  incidents  new,  striking,  and  won- 
derful beyond   the  course   of   ordinary   life,  the   former 

*  Pereffrine  Pickle  by  Smollet,  1751 ;  Tom  Jones  by  Fielding, 
1749. 


SCOTT  88 

authors  opened  that  obvious  and  strong  sense  of  interest 
which  arises  from  curiosity;  as  by  the  pure,  elevated,  and 
romantic  cast  of  the  sentiment  they  conciliated  those  bet- 
ter propensities  of  our  nature,  which  loves  to  contem- 
plate the  picture  of  virtue,  even  when  confessedly  unable 
to  imitate  its  excellences. 

But  strong  and  powerful  as  these  sources  of  emotion 
and  interest  may  be,  they  are,  like  all  others,  capable  of 
being  exhausted  by  habit.  The  imitators  who  rushed  in 
crowds  upon  each  path  in  which  the  great  masters  of  the 
art  had  successively  led  the  way,  produced  upon  the  pub- 
lic mind  the  usual  effect  of  satiety.  The  first  writer  of 
a  new  class  is,  as  it  were,  placed  on  a  pinnacle  of  excel- 
lence, to  which,  at  the  earliest  glance  of  a  surprised  ad- 
mirer, his  ascent  seems  little  less  than  miraculous.  Time 
and  imitation  speedily  diminish  the  wonder,  and  each 
successive  attempt  establishes  a  kind  of  progressive  scale 
of  ascent  between  the  lately  deified  author  and  the  reader 
who  had  deemed  his  excellence  inaccessible.  The  stu- 
pidity, the  mediocrity,  the  merit  of  his  imitators,  are 
alike  fatal  to  the  first  inventor,  by  showing  how  possible 
it  is  to  exaggerate  his  faults  and  to  come  within  a  cer- 
tain point  of  his  beauties. 

Materials  also  (and  the  man  of  genius  as  well  as  his 
wretched  imitator  must  work  with  the  same)  become  stale 
and  familiar.  Social  life,  in  our  civilized  days,  affords 
few  instances  capable  of  being  painted  in  the  strong  dark 
colors  which  excite  surprise  and  horror;  and  robbers, 
smugglers,  bailiffs,  caverns,  dungeons,  and  mad-houses 
have  been  all  introduced  until  they  ceased  to  interest. 
And  thus  in  the  novel,  as  in  every  style  of  composition 
which  appeals  to  the  public  taste,  the  more  rich  and 
easily  worked  mines  being  exhausted,  the  adventurous 
author  must,  if  he  is  desirous  of  success,  have  recourse 
to  those  which  were  disdained  by  his  predecessors  as  un- 
productive, or  avoided  as  only  capable  of  being  turned  to 
profit  by  great  skill  and  labor.  Accordingly  a  style  of 
novel  has  arisen,  within  the  last  fifteen  or  twenty  years, 
differing  from  the  former  in  the  points  upon  which  the 
interest  hinges ;  neither  alarming  our  credulity  nor  amus- 
ing our  imagination  by  wild  variety  of  incident,  or  by 
those  pictures  of  romantic  affection  and  sensibility  which 


84  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

were  formerly  as  certain  attributes  of  fictitious  charac- 
ters as  they  are  of  rare  occurrence  among  those  who 
actually  live  and  die.  The  substitute  for  these  excite- 
ments, which  had  lost  much  of  their  poignancy  by  the 
repeated  and  injudicious  use  of  them,  was  the  art  of 
copying  from  nature  as  she  really  exists  in  the  common 
walks  of  life,  and  presenting  to  the  reader,  instead  of 
the  splendid  scenes  of  an  imaginary  world,  a  correct  and 
striking  representation  of  that  which  is  daily  taking  place 
around  him. 

In  adventuring  upon  this  task,  the  author  makes  obvi- 
ous sacrifices,  and  encounters  peculiar  difficulty.  He  who 
paints  from  le  heau  ideal,  if  his  scenes  and  sentiments  are 
striking  and  interesting,  is  in  a  great  measure  exempted 
from  the  difficult  task  of  reconciling  them  with  the  ordi- 
nary probabilities  of  life;  but  he  who  paints  a  scene  of 
common  occurrence  places  his  composition  within  that 
extensive  range  of  criticism  which  general  experience  of- 
fers to  every  reader.  The  resemblance  of  a  statue  of  Her- 
cules we  must  take  on  the  artist's  judgment;  but  every 
one  can  criticize  that  which  is  presented  as  the  portrait 
of  a  friend  or  neighbor.  Something  more  than  a  mere 
sign-post  likeness  is  also  demanded.  The  portrait  must 
have  spirit  and  character,  as  well  as  resemblance;  and 
being  deprived  of  all  that,  according  to  Bayes,^  goes  "to 
elevate  and  surprise,"  it  must  make  amends  by  display- 
ing depth  of  knowledge  and  dexterity  of  execution.  We 
therefore  bestow  no  mean  compliment  upon  the  author 
of  Emma,  when  we  say  that,  keeping  close  to  common  in- 
cidents, and  to  such  characters  as  occupy  the  ordinary 
walks  of  life,  she  has  produced  sketches  of  such  spirit 
and  originality  that  we  never  miss  the  excitation  which 
depends  upon  a  narrative  of  uncommon  events,  arising 
from  the  consideration  of  minds,  manners,  and  senti- 
ments greatly  above  our  own.  In  this  class  she  stands 
almost  alone;  for  the  scenes  of  Miss  Edgeworth  are  laid 
in  higher  life,  varied  by  more  romantic  incident,  and  by 
her  remarkable  power  of  embodying  and  illustrating  na- 
tional character.  But  the  author  of  Emma  confines  her- 
self chiefly  to  the  middling  classes  of  society;  her  most 

•  A  dramatist  represented,  partly  in  ridicule  of  Dryden,  In  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham's  comedy  The  Reheartal,  1671. 


SCOTT  85 

distinguished  characters  do  not  rise  greatly  above  well- 
bred  country  gentlemen  and  ladies;  and  those  which  are 
sketched  with  most  originality  and  precision  belong  to  a 
class  rather  below  that  standard.  The  narrative  of  all 
her  novels  is  composed  of  such  common  occurrences  as 
may  have  fallen  under  the  observation  of  most  folks; 
and  her  dramatis  persorue  conduct  themselves  upon  the 
motives  and  principles  which  the  readers  may  recognize 
as  ruling  their  own  and  that  of  most  of  their  acquaint- 
ances. The  kind  of  moral,  also,  which  these  novels  in- 
culcate applies  equally  to  the  paths  of  common  life,  as 
will  best  appear  from  a  short  notice  of  the  author's  for- 
mer works,  with  a  more  full  abstract  of  that  which  we 
at  present  have  under  consideration. 

Sense  and  Sensibility,  the  first  of  these  compositions, 
contains  the  history  of  two  sisters.  The  elder,  a  young 
lady  of  prudence  and  regulated  feelings,  becomes  gradu- 
ally attached  to  a  man  of  an  excellent  heart  and  limited 
talents,  who  happens  unfortunately  to  be  fettered  by  a 
rash  and  ill-assorted  engagement.  In  the  younger  sister 
the  influence  of  sensibility  and  imagination  predomi- 
nates; and  she,  as  was  to  be  expected,  also  falls  in  love, 
but  with  more  unbridled  and  wilful  passion.  Her  lover, 
gifted  with  all  the  qualities  of  exterior  polish  and  vivac- 
ity, proves  faithless,  and  marries  a  woman  of  large  for- 
tune. The  interest  and  merit  of  the  piece  depend 
altogether  upon  the  behavior  of  the  elder  sister,  while 
obliged  at  once  to  sustain  her  own  disappointment  with 
fortitude,  and  to  support  her  sister,  who  abandons  herself, 
with  unsuppressed  feelings,  to  the  indulgence  of  grief. 
The  marriage  of  the  unworthy  rival  at  length  relieves  her 
own  lover  from  his  imprudent  engagement;  while  her 
sister,  turned  wise  by  precept,  example,  and  experience, 
transfers  her  affection  to  a  very  respectable  and  some- 
what too  serious  admirer,  who  had  nourished  an  unsuc- 
cessful passion  through  the  three  volumes. 

In  Pride  and  Prejudice  the  author  presents  us  with  a 
family  of  young  women,  bred  up  under  a  foolish  and 
vulgar  mother,  and  a  father  whose  good  abilities  lay  hid 
under  such  a  load  of  indolence  and  insensibility  that  he 
had  become  contented  to  make  the  foibles  and  follies  of 
his  wife  and  daughters  the  subject  of  dry  and  humorous 


86  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

sarcasm,  rather  than  of  admonition  or  restraint.  This 
is  one  of  the  portraits  from  ordinary  life  which  shows 
our  author's  talents  in  a  very  strong  point  of  view.  A 
friend  of  ours,  whom  the  author  never  saw  or  heard  of, 
was  at  once  recognized  by  his  own  family  as  the  original 
of  Mr.  Bennett,  and  we  do  not  know  if  he  has  yet  got 
rid  of  the  nickname.  A  Mr.  Collins,  too,  a  formal,  con- 
ceited, yet  servile  young  sprig  of  divinity,  is  drawn  with 
the  same  force  and  precision.  The  story  of  the  piece 
consists  chiefly  in  the  fates  of  the  second  sister,  to  whom 
a  man  of  high  birth,  large  fortune,  but  haughty  and  re- 
served manners,  becomes  attached,  in  spite  of  the  discredit 
thrown  upon  the  object  of  his  affection  by  the  vulgarity 
and  ill  conduct  of  her  relations.  The  lady,  on  the  con- 
trary, hurt  at  the  contempt  of  her  connections,  which  the 
lover  does  not  even  attempt  to  suppress,  and  prejudiced 
against  him  on  other  accounts,  refuses  the  hand  which  he 
ungraciously  offers,  and  does  not  perceive  that  she  has 
done  a  foolish  thing  until  she  accidentally  visits  a  very 
handsome  seat  and  grounds  belonging  to  her  admirer. 
They  chance  to  meet,  exactly  as  her  prudence  had  be- 
gun to  subdue  her  prejudice;  and  after  some  essential 
services  rendered  to  her  family,  the  lover  becomes  en- 
couraged to  renew  his  addresses,  and  the  novel  ends 
happily. 

Emma  has  even  less  story  than  either  of  the  preced- 
ing novels.  Miss  Emma  Woodhouse,  from  whom  the  book 
takes  its  name,  is  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  of  wealth 
and  consequence  residing  at  his  seat  in  the  immediate 
vicinage  of  a  country  village  called  Highbury.  The 
father,  a  good-natured,  silly  valetudinary,  abandons  the 
management  of  his  household  to  Emma,  he  himself  being 
only  occupied  by  his  summer  and  winter  walk,  his  apothe- 
cary, his  gruel,  and  his  whist  table.  The  latter  is  sup- 
plied from  the  neighboring  village  of  Highbury  with 
precisely  the  sort  of  persons  who  occupy  the  vacant  cor- 
ners of  a  regular  whist  table,  when  a  village  is  in  the 
neighborhood  and  better  cannot  be  found  within  the  fam- 
ily. We  have  the  smiling  and  courteous  vicar,  who  nour- 
ishes the  ambitious  hope  of  obtaining  Miss  Woodhouse's 
hand.  We  have  Mrs.  Bates,  the  wife  of  a  former  rector, 
past  everything  but  tea  and  whist;  her  daughter,  Miss 


SCOTT  BH 

Bates,  a  good-natured,  vulgar,  and  foolish  old  maid;  Mr. 
Weston,  a  gentleman  of  a  frank  disposition  and  moderate 
fortune,  in  the  vicinity,  and  his  wife,  an  amiable  and  ac- 
complished person,  who  had  been  Emma's  governess  and 
is  devotedly  attached  to  her.  Amongst  all  these  person- 
ages Miss  Woodhouse  walks  forth,  the  princess  paramount, 
superior  to  all  her  companions  in  wit,  beauty,  fortune, 
and  accomplishments,  doted  upon  by  her  father  and  the 
Westons,  admired,  and  almost  worshiped  by  the  more 
humble  companions  of  the  whist  table.  The  object  of 
most  young  ladies  is,  or  at  least  is  usually  supposed  to 
be,  a  desirable  connection  in  marriage.  But  Emma  Wood- 
house,  either  anticipating  the  taste  of  a  later  period  of 
life,  or,  like  a  good  sovereign,  preferring  the  weal  of 
her  subjects  of  Highbury  to  her  own  private  interest, 
sets  generously  about  making  matches  for  her  friends, 
without  thinking  of  matrimony  on  her  own  account.  We 
are  informed  that  she  had  been  eminently  successful  in 
the  case  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Weston;  and  when  the  novel 
commences  she  is  exerting  her  influence  in  favor  of  Miss 
•Harriet  Smith,  a  boarding-school  girl  without  family  or 
fortune,  very  good-humored,  very  pretty,  very  silly,  and, 
what  suited  Miss  Woodhouse's  purpose  best  of  all,  very 
much  disposed  to  be  married.  In  these  conjugal  machina- 
tions Emma  is  frequently  interrupted,  not  only  by  the 
cautions  of  her  father,  who  had  a  particular  objection 
to  anybody  committing  the  rash  act  of  matrimony,  but 
also  by  the  sturdy  reproof  and  remonstrances  of  Mr. 
Knightley,  the  elder  brother  of  her  sister's  husband,  a 
sensible  country  gentleman  of  thirty-five,  who  had  known 
Emma  from  her  cradle,  and  was  the  only  person  who 
ventured  to  find  fault  with  her.  In  spite,  however,  of 
his  censure  and  warning,  Emma  lays  a  plan  of  marrying 
Harriet  Smith  to  the  vicar;  and  though  she  succeeds 
perfectly  in  diverting  her  simple  friend's  thoughts  from 
an  honest  farmer  who  had  made  her  a  very  suitable  offer, 
and  in  flattering  her  into  a  passion  for  Mr.  Elton,  yet  on 
the  other  hand  that  conceited  divine  totally  mistakes  the 
nature  of  the  encouragement  held  out  to  him,  and  at- 
tributes the  favor  which  he  found  in  Miss  Woodhouse's 
eyes  to  a  lurking  affection  on  her  own  part.  This  at 
length  encourages  him  to  a  presumptuous  declaration  of 


88  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

his  sentiments;  upon  receiving  a  repulse,  he  looks  abroad 
elsewhere,  and  enriches  the  Highbury  society  by  uniting 
himself  to  a  dashing  young  woman  with  as  many  thou- 
sands as  are  usually  called  ten,  and  a  corresponding  quan- 
tity of  presumption  and  ill  breeding.  While  Emma  is 
thus  vainly  engaged  in  forging  wedlock  fetters  for  others, 
her  friends  have  views  of  the  same  kind  upon  her,  in 
favor  of  a  son  of  Mr.  Weston  by  a  former  marriage,  who 
bears  the  name,  lives  under  the  patronage,  and  is  to  in- 
herit the  fortune,  of  a  rich  uncle.  Unfortunately  Mr. 
Frank  Churchill  had  already  settled  his  affections  on  Miss 
Jane  Fairfax,  a  young  lady  of  reduced  fortune;  but  as 
this  was  a  concealed  affair,  Emma,  when  Mr.  Churchill 
first  appears  on  the  stage,  has  some  thoughts  of  being  in 
love  with  him  herself;  speedily,  however,  recovering  from 
that  dangerous  propensity,  she  is  disposed  to  confer  upon 
him  her  deserted  friend  Harriet  Smith.  Harriet  has,  in 
the  interim,  fallen  desperately  in  love  with  Mr.  Knightley, 
the  sturdy,  advice-giving  bachelor;  and,  as  all  the  village 
supposes  Frank  Churchill  and  Emma  to  be  attached  to 
each  other,  there  are  cross  purposes  enough  (were  the 
novel  of  a  more  romantic  cast)  for  cutting  half  the  men's 
throats  and  breaking  all  the  women's  hearts.  But  at 
Highbury  Cupid  walks  decorously,  and  with  good  discre- 
tion, bearing  his  torch  under  a  lantern  instead  of  flour- 
ishing it  around  to  set  the  house  on  fire.  All  these  en- 
tanglements bring  on  only  a  train  of  mistakes  and  em- 
barrassing situations,  and  dialogues  at  balls  and  parties 
of  pleasure,  in  which  the  author  displays  her  peculiar 
powers  of  humor  and  knowledge  of  human  life.  The  plot 
is  extricated  with  great  simplicity.  The  aunt  of  Frank 
Churchill  dies;  his  uncle,  no  longer  under  her  baneful 
influence,  consents  to  his  marriage  with  Jane  Fairfax. 
Mr.  Knightley  and  Emma  are  led,  by  this  unexpected 
incident,  to  discover  that  they  had  been  in  love  with  each 
other  all  along.  Mr.  Woodhouse's  objections  to  the  mar- 
riage of  his  daughter  are  overpowered  by  the  fears  of 
house-breakers,  and  the  comfort  which  he  hopes  to  derive 
from  having  a  stout  son-in-law  resident  in  the  family; 
and  the  facile  affections  of  Harriet  Smith  are  transferred, 
like  a  bank  bill  by  endorsation,  to  her  former  suitor,  the 
honest  farmer,  who  had  obtained  a  favorable  opportunity 


SCOTT  80 

of  renewing  his  addresses.  Such  is  the  simple  plan  of  a 
story  which  we  peruse  with  pleasure,  if  not  with  deep  in- 
terest, and  which  perhaps  we  might  more  willingly  resume 
than  one  of  those  narratives  where  the  attention  is  strongly 
riveted,  during  the  first  perusal,  by  the  powerful  excite- 
ment of  curiosity. 

The  author's  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  the  peculiar 
tact  with  which  she  presents  characters  that  the  reader 
cannot  fail  to  recognize,  reminds  us  something  of  the 
merits  of  the  Flemish  school  of  painting.  The  subjects 
are  not  often  elegant,  and  certainly  never  grand ;  but  they 
are  finished  up  to  nature,  and  with  a  precision  which  de- 
lights the  reader.*  .  .  . 


DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "WAV- 
ERLEY"  AND  CAPTAIN  CLUTTERBUCK 

Walter  Scott 

f  Scott  had  playfully  prefaced  the  romance  of  The  Monas- 
tery, 1820,  with  an  epistle  supposed  to  be  written  by  Captain 
Cuthbert  Clutterbuck  of  Kennaquhair,  who  was  represented 
as  having  furnished  the  author  of  W/ctverley  the  materials  of 
the  story  in  an  ancient  manuscript.  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel, 
1822,  was  prefaced  by  a  letter  from  Captain  Clutterbuck  to 
Dr.  Dryasdust,  in  which  the  writer  related  how  he  had  lately 
met  the  Author  of  Waverley  for  the  first  time  In  a  remote 
room  in  an  Edinburgh  publishing  house,  and  engaged  in  the 
following  dialogue.  It  should  be  recalled  that  at  the  time 
these  books  were  published  the  authorship  of  the  Waverley 
Novels  was  still  a  secret.] 

Author.  I  was  willing  to  see  you,  Captain  Clutterbuck, 
being  the  person  of  my  family  whom  I  have  most  regard 
for,  since  the  death  of  Jedediah  Cleishhothara  ;^  and  I 
am  afraid  I  may  have  done  you  some  wrong,  in  assigning 
to  you  The  Monastery  as  a  portion  of  my  effects.  I 
have  some  thoughts  of  making  it  up  to  you  by  naming 

*  In  the  paragraphs  that  follow,  Scott  quotes  a  specimen  of 
Miss  Austen's  dialogue,  praising  its  fidelity  to  real  life,  but 
querying  whether,  in  the  case  of  tedious  characters,  such  fidelity 
may   not  itself  become  tedious. 

» The  imaginary  compiler  of  Scott's  Talea  of  My  Landlord. 


90  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

you  godfather  to  this  yet  unborn  babe.  But  first,  touch- 
ing The  Monastery, — how  says  the  world? — ^you  are 
abroad  and  can  leam. 

Captain.  Hem!  Hem! — the  inquiry  is  delicate.  I 
have  not  heard  any  complaints  from  the  publishers. 

Author.  That  is  the  principal  matter;  but  yet  an  in- 
different work  is  sometimes  towed  on  by  those  which  have 
left  harbor  before  it,  with  the  breeze  in  their  poop.  What 
say  the  critics? 

Captain.  There  is  a  general — feeling — that  the  White 
Lady  is  no  favorite. 

Author.  I  think  she  is  a  failure  myself,  but  rather  in 
execution  than  conception.  Could  I  have  evoked  an 
esprit  follet,^  at  the  same  time  fantastic  and  interesting, 
capricious  and  kind — a  sort  of  wildfire  of  the  elements, 
bound  by  no  fixed  laws  or  motives  of  action — faithful  and 
fond,  yet  teasing  and  uncertain 

Captain.  If  you  will  pardon  the  interruption,  sir,  I 
think  you  are  describing  a  pretty  woman. 

Author.  On  my  word,  I  believe  I  am.  I  must  invest 
my  elementary  spirits  with  a  little  human  fiesh  and  blood 
— they  are  too  fine-drawn  for  the  present  taste  of  the 
public. 

Captain.  They  object,  too,  that  the  object  of  your 
Nixie  ought  to  have  been  more  uniformly  noble.  Her 
ducking  the  priest  ^  was  no  Naiad-like  amusement. 

Author.  Ah!  they  ought  to  allow  for  the  capriccios  of 
what  is,  after  all,  but  a  better  sort  of  goblin.  The  bath 
into  which  Ariel,  the  most  delicate  creation  of  Shake- 
speare's imagination,  seduces  our  jolly  friend  Trinculo,* 
was  not  of  amber  or  rose-water.  But  no  one  shall  find 
me  rowing  against  the  stream.  I  care  not  who  knows  it 
— I  write  for  general  amusement;  and,  though  I  never 
will  aim  at  popularity  by  what  I  think  unworthy  means, 
I  will  not,  on  the  other  hand,  be  pertinaceous  in 
the  defence  of  my  own  errors  against  the  voice  of  the 
public. 

Captain.  You  abandon,  then,  in  the  present  work,  the 
mystic,  and  the  magical,  and  the  whole  system  of  signs, 

*Elfln  Sprite.  •See  The  Monastery,  chapter  v. 

•  See  The  Tempeat,  IV.  1.  181-84. 


SCOTT  91 

wonders,  and  omens?  There  are  no  dreams,  or  presages, 
or  obscure  allusions  to  future  events? 

Author.  Not  a  Cock  Lane  scratch,  my  son — not  one 
bounce  on  the  drum  of  Tedworth  '^ — not  so  much  as  the 
poor  tick  of  a  solitary  death-watch  in  the  wainscot.  All 
is  clear  and  above  board — a  Scots  metaphysician  might  be- 
lieve every  word  of  it. 

Captain.  And  the  story  is,  I  hope,  natural  and  prob- 
able ;  commencing  strikingly,  proceeding  naturally,  ending 
happily — like  the  course  of  a  famed  river,  which  gushes 
from  the  mouth  of  some  obscure  and  romantic  grotto, 
then  gliding  on,  never  pausing,  never  precipitating  its 
course,  visiting,  as  it  were,  by  natural  instinct,  whatever 
worthy  subjects  of  interest  are  presented  by  the  country 
through  which  it  passes — widening  and  deepening  in  in- 
terest as  it  flows  on;  and  at  length  arriving  at  the  final 
catastrophe  as  at  some  mighty  haven,  where  ships  of 
all  kinds  strike  sail  and  yard  ? 

Author.  Heyl  hey  I  what  the  deuce  is  all  this?  Why, 
'tis  'Ercles'  vein,^  and  it  would  require  some  one  much 
more  like  Hercules  than  I  to  produce  a  story  which  should 
gush,  and  glide,  and  never  pause,  and  visit,  and  widen, 
and  deepen,  and  all  the  rest  on't.  I  should  be  chin-deep 
in  the  grave,  man,  before  I  had  done  with  my  task; 
and,  in  the  meanwhile,  all  the  quirks  and  quiddities  which 
I  might  have  devised  for  my  reader's  amusement  would 
lie  rotting  in  my  gizzard,  like  Sancho's  suppressed  wit- 
ticisms when  he  was  under  his  master's  displeasure.*^ 
There  was  never  a  novel  written  on  this  plan  while  the 
world  stood. 

Captain.    Pardon  me — Tom  Jones. 

Author.  True,  and  perhaps  Amelia  also.  Fielding  had 
high  notions  of  the  dignity  of  an  art  which  he  may  be 
considered  as  having  founded.  He  challenges  a  com- 
parison between  the  Novel  and  the  Epic*  Smollett,  Le 
Sage,  and  others,  emancipating  themselves  from  the  strict- 

» At  Cock  Lane,  In  Dr.  Johnson's  time,  there  was  supposed  to 
be  a  notable  ghost.  In  1661  a  drummer  of  Tedworth  was  sup- 
posed to  have  employed  agencies  of  the  devil  to  persecute  aa 
enemy  by  means  of  mysterious  noises  in  his  house. 

•See  Midsummer  Night'8  Dream,  I,  11,  42. 

*  In  Don  Quixote,  passim. 

•See  Fielding's  Preface  to  Joseph  Andrews. 


92  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

ness  of  the  rules  he  has  laid  down,  have  written  rather  a 
history  of  the  miscellaneous  adventures  which  befall  an 
individual  in  the  course  of  life,  than  the  plot  of  a  regu- 
lar and  connected  epopeia,  where  every  step  brings  us  a 
point  nearer  to  the  final  catastrophe.  These  great  mas- 
ters have  been  satisfied  if  they  amused  the  reader  upon 
the  road,  though  the  conclusion  only  arrived  because  the 
tale  must  have  an  end — just  as  the  traveler  alights  at 
the  inn  because  it  is  evening. 

Captain.  A  very  commodious  mode  of  traveling,  for 
the  author  at  least.  In  short,  sir,  you  are  of  opinion 
with  Bayes — "What  the  devil  does  the  plot  signify,  except 
to  bring  in  fine  things  ?"  ® 

Author.  Grant  that  I  were  so,  and  that  I  should  write 
with  sense  and  spirit  a  few  scenes,  unlabored  and  loosely 
put  together,  but  which  had  sufficient  interest  in  them  to 
amuse  in  one  corner  the  pain  of  body;  in  another,  to  re- 
lieve anxiety  of  mind;  in  a  third  place,  to  unwrinkle  a 
brow  bent  with  the  furrows  of  daily  toil;  in  another,  to 
fill  the  place  of  bad  thoughts,  or  to  suggest  better;  in  yet 
another,  to  induce  an  idler  to  study  the  history  of  his 
country;  in  all,  save  where  the  perusal  interrupted  the 
discharge  of  serious  duties,  to  furnish  harmless  amuse- 
ment— might  not  the  author  of  such  a  work,  however  in- 
artificially  executed,  plead  for  his  errors  and  negligences 
the  excuse  of  the  slave  who,  about  to  be  punished  for 
having  spread  the  false  report  of  a  victory,  saved  himself 
by  exclaiming,  "Am  I  to  blame,  O  Athenians,  who  have 
given  you  one  happy  day?"  .  .  . 

Captain.  But  allowing,  my  dear  sir,  that  you  care  not 
for  your  personal  reputation,  or  for  that  of  any  literary 
person  upon  whose  shoulders  your  faults  may  be  visited, 
allow  me  to  say  that  common  gratitude  to  the  public, 
which  has  received  you  so  kindly,  and  to  the  critics,  who 
have  treated  you  so  leniently,  ought  to  induce  you  to  be- 
stow more  pains  on  your  story. 

Author.  1  do  entreat  you,  my  son,  as  Dr.  Johnson 
would  have  said,  "free  your  mind  from  cant."  For  the 
critics,  they  have  their  business,  and  I  mine;  as  the  nur- 
sery proverb  goes — 

•  In  Backingbam's  Reheartal,  III,  L 


SCOTT  93 

The  children  in  Holland  take  pleasure  in  making 

What  the  children  in  England  take  pleasure  in  breaking. 

I  am  their  humble  jackal,  too  busy  providing  food  for 
them  to  have  time  for  considering  whether  they  swallow 
or  reject  it.  To  the  public  I  stand  pretty  nearly  in  the 
relation  of  the  postman  who  leaves  a  packet  at  the  door 
of  an  individual.  If  it  contains  pleasing  intelligence — 
a  billet  from  a  mistress,  a  letter  from  an  absent  son,  a 
remittance  from  a  correspondent  supposed  to  be  bankrupt 
— the  letter  is  acceptably  welcome,  and  read  and  re-read, 
folded  up,  filed,  and  safely  deposited  in  the  bureau.  If 
the  contents  are  disagreeable,  if  it  comes  from  a  dun  or 
from  a  bore,  the  correspondent  is  cursed,  the  letter  is 
thrown  into  the  fire,  and  the  expense  of  postage  is  heartily 
regretted ;  while  all  the  time  the  bearer  of  the  dispatches 
is,  in  either  case,  as  little  thought  on  as  the  snow  of  last 
Christmas.  The  utmost  extent  of  kindness  between  the 
author  and  the  public  which  can  really  exist,  is  that  the 
world  are  disposed  to  be  somewhat  indulgent  to  the  suc- 
ceeding works  of  an  original  favorite,  were  it  but  on 
account  of  the  habit  which  the  public  mind  has  acquired ; 
while  the  author  very  naturally  thinks  well  of  their  taste 
who  have  so  liberally  applauded  his  productions.  But 
I  deny  there  is  any  call  for  gratitude,  properly  so  called, 
either  on  one  side  or  the  other. 

Captain.  Respect  to  yourself,  then,  ought  to  teach  cau- 
tion. 

Author.  Ay,  if  caution  could  augment  the  chance  of 
my  success.  But,  to  confess  to  you  the  truth,  the  works 
and  passages  in  which  I  have  succeeded  have  uniformly 
been  written  with  the  greatest  rapidity ;  and  when  I  have 
seen  some  of  these  placed  in  opposition  with  others,  and 
commended  as  more  highly  finished,  I  could  appeal  to 
pen  and  standish  that  the  parts  in  which  I  have  come 
feebly  off  were  by  much  the  more  labored.  Besides,  I 
doubt  the  beneficial  effect  of  too  much  delay,  both  on  ac- 
count of  the  author  and  the  public.  A  man  should  strike 
while  the  iron  is  hot,  and  hoist  sail  while  the  wind  is 
fair.  If  a  successful  author  keep  not  the  stage,  another 
instantly  takes  his  ground.  If  a  writer  lie  by  for  ten 
years  ere  he  produces  a  second  work,  he  is  superseded  by 


94  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

others;  or,  if  the  age  is  so  poor  of  genius  that  this  does 
not  happen,  his  own  reputation  becomes  his  greatest  ob- 
stacle. The  public  will  expect  the  new  work  to  be  ten 
times  better  than  its  predecessor;  the  author  will  expect 
it  should  be  ten  times  more  popular;  and  'tis  a  hundred 
to  ten  that  both  are  disappointed. 

Captain.  This  may  justify  a  certain  degree  of  rapidity 
in  publication,  but  not  that  which  is  proverbially  said  to 
be  no  speed.  You  should  take  time  at  least  to  arrange 
your  story. 

Author.  That  is  a  sore  point  with  me,  my  son.  Be- 
lieve me,  I  have  not  been  fool  enough  to  neglect  ordinary 
precautions.  I  have  repeatedly  laid  down  my  future  work 
to  scale,  divided  it  into  volumes  and  chapters,  and  en- 
deavored to  construct  a  story  which  I  meant  should  evolve 
itself  gradually  and  strikingly,  maintain  suspense,  and 
stimulate  curiosity;  and  which,  finally,  should  terminate 
in  a  striking  catastrophe.  But  I  think  there  is  a  demon 
who  seats  himself  on  the  feather  of  my  pen  when  I  begin 
to  write,  and  leads  it  astray  from  the  purpose.  Char- 
acters expand  under  my  hand;  incidents  are  multiplied; 
the  story  lingers,  while  the  materials  increase;  my  regu- 
lar mansion  turns  out  a  Gothic  anomaly,  and  the  work 
is  closed  long  before  1  have  attained  the  point  I  pro- 
posed. 

Captain.  Resolution  and  determined  forbearance  might 
remedy  that  evil. 

Author.  Alas!  my  dear  sir,  you  do  not  know  the  force 
of  paternal  affection.  When  I  light  on  such  a  character 
as  Bailie  Jarvie,  or  Dalgetty/**  my  imagination  brightens, 
and  my  conception  becomes  clearer  at  every  step  which  I 
take  in  his  company,  although  it  leads  me  many  a  weary 
mile  away  from  the  regular  road,  and  forces  me  to  leap 
hedge  and  ditch  to  get  back  into  the  route  again.  If  I 
resist  the  temptation,  as  you  advise  me,  my  thoughts  be- 
come prosy,  flat,  and  dull;  I  write  painfully  to  myself, 
and  under  a  consciousness  of  flagging  which  makes  me 
flag  still  more;  the  sunshine  with  which  fancy  had  in- 
vested the  incidents  departs  from  them,  and  leaves  every- 
thing dull  and  gloomy.    I  am  no  more  the  same  author  I 

'*JaiTle  In  Roh  Roy,  Dalgetty  In  A  Legend  of  Montroae. 


SCOTT  9ft 

was  in  my  better  mood  than  the  dog  in  a  wheel,  con- 
demned to  go  round  and  round  for  hours,  is  like  the  same 
dog  merrily  chasing  his  own  tail,  and  gamboling  in  all 
the  frolic  of  unrestrained  freedom.  In  short,  sir,  on  such 
occasions,  I  think  I  am  bewitched. 

Captain.  Nay,  sir,  if  you  plead  sorcery,  there  is  no 
more  to  be  said — he  must  needs  go  whom  the  devil  drives. 
And  this,  I  suppose,  sir,  is  the  reason  why  you  do  not 
make  the  theatrical  attempt  to  which  you  have  been  so 
often  urged? 

Author.  It  may  pass  for  one  good  reason  for  not  writ- 
ing a  play,  that  I  cannot  form  a  plot.  But  the  truth  is, 
that  the  idea  adopted  by  too  favorable  judges,  of  my  hav- 
ing some  aptitude  for  that  department  of  poetry,  has  been 
much  founded  on  those  scraps  of  old  plays  which,  being 
taken  from  a  source  inaccessible  to  collectors,  they  have 
hastily  considered  the  offspring  of  my  mother  wit.**  .  .  . 

Captain.  You  are  determined  to  proceed  then  in  your 
own  system?  Are  you  aware  that  an  unowrthy  motive 
may  be  assigned  for  this  rapid  succession  of  publication? 
You  will  be  supposed  to  work  merely  for  the  lucre  of  gain. 

Author.  Supposing  that  I  did  permit  the  great  ad- 
vantages which  must  be  derived  from  success  in  literature 
to  join  with  other  motives  in  inducing  me  to  come  more 
frequently  before  the  public,  that  emolument  is  the  vol- 
untary tax  which  the  public  pays  for  a  certain  species  of 
literary  amusement — it  is  extorted  from  no  one,  and  paid, 
I  presume,  by  those  only  who  can  afford  it,  and  who  re- 
ceive gratification  in  proportion  to  the  expense.  If  the 
capital  sum  which  these  volumes  have  put  into  circula- 
tion be  a  very  large  one,  has  it  contributed  to  my  indul- 
gences only?  or  can  I  not  say  to  hundreds,  from  honest 
Duncan,  the  paper  manufacturer,  to  the  most  sniveling 
of  the  printer's  devils,  "Didst  thou  not  share?  Hadst 
thou  not  fifteen  pence?"  **  I  profess  I  think  our  Modem 
Athens  much  obliged  to  me  for  having  established  such 
an  extensive  manufacture;  and  when  universal  suffrage 
comes  in  fashion,  I  intend  to  stand  for  a  seat  in  the 

"  Scott  actually  composed  many  of  these  professed   quotations, 
using  them  as  chapter-headings  in  his  romances. 
»» See  Merrv  Wives  of  Windaor,  II,  li,  14. 


96  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

House  on  the  interest  of  all  the  unwashed  artificers  con- 
nected with  literature. 

Captain.  This  would  be  called  the  language  of  a  calico 
manufacturer. 

Author.     Cant  again,  my  dear  son — there  is  lime  in  this 

sack,  too  ^' nothing  but  sophistication  in  this  world  1    I 

do  say  it,  in  spite  of  Adam  Smith  and  his  followers,  that 
a  successful  author  is  a  productive  laborer,  and  that  his 
works  constitute  as  effectual  part  of  the  public  wealth  as 
that  which  is  created  by  any  other  manufacture.  If  a 
new  commodity,  having  an  actually  intrinsic  and  com- 
mercial value,  be  the  result  of  the  operation,  why  are 
the  author's  bales  of  books  to  be  esteemed  a  less  profit- 
able part  of  the  public  stock  than  the  goods  of  any  other 
manufacturer?  I  speak  with  reference  to  the  diffusion 
of  the  wealth  arising  to  the  public,  and  the  degree  of  in- 
dustry which  even  such  a  trifling  work  as  the  present 
must  stimulate  and  reward,  before  the  volumes  leave  the 
publisher's  shop.  Without  me  it  could  not  exist,  and  to 
this  extent  I  am  a  benefactor  to  the  country.  As  for  my 
own  emolument,  it  is  won  by  my  toil,  and  I  account  my- 
self answerable  to  Heaven  only  for  the  mode  in  which  I 
expend  it.  The  candid  may  hope  it  is  not  all  dedicated 
to  selfish  purposes;  and,  without  much  pretensions  to 
merit  in  him  who  disburses  it,  a  part  may  "wander. 
Heaven-directed,  to  the  poor." 

Captain.  Yet  it  is  generally  held  base  to  write  from 
the  mere  motives  of  gain. 

Author.  It  would  be  base  to  do  so  exclusively,  or  even 
to  make  it  a  principal  motive  for  literary  exertion.  Nay, 
I  will  venture  to  say  that  no  work  of  imagination  pro- 
ceeding from  the  mere  consideration  of  a  certain  sum  of 
copy-money  ever  did,  or  ever  will,  succeed.  So  the  law- 
yer who  pleads,  the  soldier  who  fights,  the  physician  who 
prescribes,  the  clergyman — if  such  there  be — who  preaches, 
without  any  zeal  for  his  profession,  or  without  any  sense 
of  its  dignity,  and  merely  on  account  of  the  fee,  pay,  or 
stipend,  degrade  themselves  to  the  rank  of  sordid  mechan- 
ics. Accordingly,  in  the  case  of  two  of  the  learned  fac- 
ulties at  least,  their  services  are  considered  as  unappreci- 

«See  i  Henry  IV,  II,  It,  137. 


SCOTT  Vt 

able,  and  are  acknowledged,  not  by  any  exact  estimate  of 
the  services  rendered,  but  by  a  honorarium,  or  voluntary 
acknowledgment.  But  let  a  client  or  patient  make  the 
experiment  of  omitting  this  little  ceremony  of  the  honora- 
rium, which  is  cense  to  be  a  thing  entirely  out  of  consid- 
eration between  them,  and  mark  how  the  learned  gen- 
tleman will  look  upon  his  case.  Cant  set  apart,  it  is  the 
same  thing  with  literary  emolument.  No  man  of  sense 
in  any  rank  of  life  is,  or  ought  to  be,  above  accepting  a 
just  recompense  for  his  time,  and  a  reasonable  share  of 
the  capital  which  owes  its  very  existence  to  his  exertions. 
When  Czar  Peter  wrought  in  the  trenches,  he  took  the 
pay  of  a  common  soldier;  and  nobles,  statesmen,  and  di- 
vines, the  most  distinguished  of  their  time,  have  not 
scorned  to  square  accounts  with  their  bookseller. 
Captain  (sings). 

Ob  if  it  were  a  mean   thing, 

The  gentles  would  not  use  it; 
And  if  it  were  ungodly, 

The  clergy  would  refuse  it." 

Author.  You  say  well.  But  no  man  of  honor,  genius, 
or  spirit  would  make  the  mere  love  of  gain  the  chief,  far 
less  the  only,  purpose  of  his  labors.  For  myself,  I  am 
not  displeased  to  find  the  game  a  winning  one;  yet  while 
I  pleased  the  public,  I  should  probably  continue  it  merely 
for  the  pleasure  of  playing,  for  I  have  felt  as  strongly  as 
most  folks  that  love  of  composition  which  is  perhaps  the 
strongest  of  all  instincts,  driving  the  author  to  the  pen, 
the  painter  to  the  palette,  often  without  either  the  chance 
of  fame  or  the  prospect  of  reward.  Perhaps  I  have  said 
too  much  of  this.  I  might,  perhaps,  with  as  much  truth 
as  most  people,  exculpate  myself  from  the  charge  of  being 
either  of  a  greedy  or  mercenary  disposition;  but  I  am 
not,  therefore,  hypocrite  enough  to  disclaim  the  ordinary 
motives  on  account  of  which  the  whole  world  around  me 
is  toiling  unremittingly,  to  the  sacrifice  of  ease,  comfort, 
health,  and  life.  I  do  not  affect  the  disinterestedness  of 
that  ingenious  association  of  gentlemen  mentioned  by 
Goldsmith,  who  sold  their  magazine  for  sixpence  apiece, 
merely  for  their  own  amusement. 

'*  From  an  old  Scotch,  song,  "Some  say  that  kisslng's  a  sin." 


98  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Captain.  I  have  but  one  thing  more  to  hint — ^the  world 
say  you  will  run  yourself  out. 

Author.  The  world  say  true;  and  what  then?  When 
they  dance  no  longer,  I  will  no  longer  pipe;  and  I  shall 
not  want  flappers  enough  to  remind  me  of  the  apoplexy. 

Captain.  And  what  will  become  of  us  then,  your  poor 
family  ?    We  shall  fall  into  contempt  and  oblivion. 

Author.  Like  many  a  poor  fellow,  already  overwhelmed 
with  the  number  of  his  family,  I  cannot  help  going  on 
to  increase  it — "  'Tis  my  vocation,  Hal."  ^'  Such  of  you 
as  deserve  oblivion — ^perhaps  the  whole  of  you — may  be 
consigned  to  it.  At  any  rate,  you  have  been  read  in  your 
day,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  some  of  your  con- 
temporaries, of  less  fortune  and  more  merit.  They  can- 
not say  but  that  you  had  the  crown.  It  is  always  some- 
thing to  have  engaged  the  public  attention  for  seven 
years.  Had  I  only  written  Waverlej/,  1  should  have  long 
since  been,  according  to  the  established  phrase,  "the  in- 
genious author  of  a  novel  much  admired  at  the  time." 
I  believe,  on  my  soul,  that  the  reputation  of  Waverley 
is  sustained  very  much  by  the  praises  of  those  who  may 
be  inclined  to  prefer  that  tale  to  its  successors. 

Captain.  You  are  willing,  then,  to  barter  future  repu- 
tation for  present  popularity? 

Author.  Meliora  spero.^^  Horace  himself  expected  not 
to  survive  in  all  his  works.  I  may  hope  to  live  in  some 
of  mine — non  omnis  moriar.^''  It  is  some  consolation  to 
reflect  that  the  best  authors  in  all  countries  have  been  the 
most  voluminous;  and  it  has  often  happened  that  those 
who  have  been  best  received  in  their  own  time  have  also 
continued  to  be  acceptable  to  posterity.  I  do  not  think 
so  ill  of  the  present  generation  as  to  suppose  that  its 
present  favor  necessarily  infers  future  condemnation. 

Captain.  Were  all  to  act  on  such  principles,  the  pub- 
lic would  be  inundated. 

Author.  Once  more,  my  dear  son,  beware  of  cant. 
You  speak  as  if  the  public  were  obliged  to  read  books 
merely  because  they  are  printed.    Your  friends  the  book- 

"See  1  Henry  IV,  I,  11,  116. 

I*  "I  hope  for  better  things" ;  the  motto  of  the  house  of  Stor- 
mont. 

""I  shall  not  wholly  die"   (Horace,  Odea,  III,  30). 


SCOTT  9» 

sellers  would  thank  you  to  make  the  proposition  good. 
The  most  serious  grievance  attending  such  inundations 
as  you  talk  of,  is  that  they  make  rags  dear.  The  multi- 
plicity of  publications  does  the  present  age  no  harm,  and 
may  greatly  advantage  that  which  is  to  succeed  us. 

Captain.    I  do  not  see  how  that  is  to  happen. 

Author.  The  complaints  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  and 
James,  of  the  alarming  fertility  of  the  press,  were  as 
loud  as  they  are  at  present;  yet  look  at  the  shore  over 
which  the  inundation  of  that  age  flowed,  and  it  resem- 
bles now  the  Kich  Strand  of  the  Faerie  Queens — 

Bestrew'd  all  with  rich  array, 
Of  pearl  and  precious  stones  of  great  assay; 
And  all  the  gravel  mix'd  with  golden  ore." 

Believe  me  that  even  in  the  most  neglected  works  of  the 
present  age  the  next  may  discover  treasures. 

Captain.    Some  books  will  defy  all  alchemy. 

Author.  They  will  be  but  few  in  number,  since,  as  for 
writers  who  are  possessed  of  no  merit  at  all,  unless  in- 
deed they  publish  their  works  at  their  own  expense,  like 
Sir  Richard  Blackmore,^^  their  power  of  annoying  the  pub- 
lic will  be  soon  limited  by  the  difficulty  of  finding  un- 
dertaking booksellers. 

Captain.  You  are  incorrigible.  Are  there  no  bounds 
to  your  audacity? 

Author.  There  are  the  sacred  and  eternal  boundaries  of 
honor  and  virtue.  My  course  is  like  the  enchanted  cham- 
ber of  Britomart — 

Where,  as  she  look'd  about,  she  did  behold 
How  over  that  same  door  was  likewise  writ, 
Be  Bold — Be  Bold,  and  everywhere  Be  bold. 
Whereat  she  mused,  and  could  not  construe  it; 
At  last  she  spied,  at  that  room's  upper  end. 
Another  iron  door,  on  which  was  writ, 
Be  not  too  Bold." 

Captain.  Well,  you  must  take  the  risk  of  proceeding 
on  your  own  principles. 

^Faerie  Queenc,  III,  Iv,  stanza  18. 

"  Author  of  a  number  of  unsuccessful  poems ;  died  1729. 

Taerie  Queene,  III,  xi,  stanza  54. 


100  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Author.  Do  you  act  on  yours ;  and  take  care  you  do  not 
stay  idling  here  till  the  dinner  hour  is  over.  I  will  add 
this  work  to  your  patrimony,  valeat  quafitum.^^ 


IMAGINATION  AND  FANCY 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

[This,  like  the  two  following  selections,  is  an  extract  from 
the  miscellany  called  Biographia  Literaria,  published  1817. 
Coleridge  viewed  his  distinction  between  Imagination  and 
Fancy  as  an  original  contribution  of  the  first  importance 
(see  the  Introduction,  page  xi),  but  after  repeated  approaches 
to  it  in  various  chapters  of  the  Biographia,  he  abandoned  the 
effort  to  expound  it  fully.  The  selection  is  made  up  from 
the  passages  dealing  with  the  subject  in  chapters  4,  12, 
and  13.] 

Repeated  meditations  led  me  first  to  suspect  (and  a 
more  intimate  analysis  of  the  hxmaan  faculties,  their  ap- 
propriate marks,  functions,  and  effects,  matured  my  con- 
jecture into  full  conviction)  that  fancy  and  imagination 
were  two  distinct  and  widely  different  faculties,  instead 
of  being,  according  to  the  general  belief,  either  two  names 
with  one  meaning,  or,  at  furthest,  the  lower  and  higher 
degree  of  one  and  the  same  power.  It  is  not,  I  own,  easy 
to  conceive  a  more  opposite  translation  of  the  Greek 
phantasia  than  the  Latin  imaginatio;  but  it  is  equally  true 
that  in  all  societies  there  exists  an  instinct  of  growth,  a 
certain  collective,  unconscious  good  sense  working  pro- 
gressively to  desynonymize  those  words  originally  of  the 
same  meaning,  which  the  conflux  of  dialects  had  supplied 
to  the  more  homogeneous  languages,  as  the  Greek  and 
German,  and  which  the  same  cause,  joined  with  accidents 
of  translation  from  original  works  of  different  countries, 
occasion  in  mixed  languages  like  our  own.  The  first  and 
most  important  point  to  be  proved  is  that  two  concep- 
tions perfectly  distinct  are  confused  under  one  and  the 
same  word,  and  (this  done)  to  appropriate  that  word  ex- 
clusively to  one  meaning,  and  the  synonym — should  there 
be  one — to  the  other.    But  if  (as  will  be  often  the  case 

"  "Whatever  it  may  be  worth." 


COLERIDGE  101 

in  the  arts  and  sciences)  no  synonym  exists,  we  must 
either  invent  or  borrow  a  word.  In  the  present  instance 
the  appropriation  has  already  begun,  and  been  legitimated 
in  the  derivative  adjective:  Milton  had  a  highly  imagina- 
tive, Cowley  a  very  fanciful  mind.  If,  therefore,  I  should 
succeed  in  establishing  the  actual  existence  of  two  facul- 
ties generally  different,  the  nomenclature  would  be  at  once 
determined.  To  the  faculty  by  which  I  had  characterized 
Milton,  we  should  confine  the  term  imagination;  while 
the  other  would  be  contra-distinguished  as  fancy.  Now 
were  it  once  fully  ascertained  that  this  division  is  no  less 
grounded  in  nature  than  that  of  delirium  from  mania, 
or  Otway's 

Lutes,  lobsters,  seas  of  milk,  and  ships  of  amber, 

from  Shakespeare's 

What!  have  his  daughters  brought  him  to  this  pass?' 

or  from  the  preceding  apostrophe  to  the  elements, — the 
theory  of  the  fine  arts,  and  of  poetry  in  particular,  could 
not,  I  thought,  but  derive  some  additional  and  impor- 
tant light.  It  would  in  its  immediate  effects  furnish  a 
torch  of  guidance  to  the  philosophical  critic,  and  ulti- 
mately to  the  poet  himself.  In  energetic  minds,  truth 
soon  changes  by  domestication  into  i)ower,  and,  from  di- 
recting in  the  discrimination  and  appraisal  of  the  prod- 
uct, becomes  influencive  in  the  production.  To  admire 
on  principle  is  the  only  way  to  imitate  without  loss  of 
originality. 

It  has  been  already  hinted  that  metaphysics  and  psychol- 
ogy have  long  been  my  hobby-horse.  But  to  have  a  hobby- 
horse, and  to  be  vain  of  it,  are  so  commonly  found  to- 
gether that  they  pass  almost  for  the  same.  I  trust,  there- 
fore, that  there  will  be  more  good  humor  than  contempt 
in  the  smile  with  which  the  reader  chastises  my  self- 
complacency,  if  I  confess  myself  uncertain  whether  the 
satisfaction  from  the  perception  of  a  truth  new  to  myself 

*  From  a  speech  of  the  mad  Belvidera,  in  Otway's  Venice  Pre- 
»erved,  V,  li  (where  the  original,  however,  reads  "laurels"  in 
place  of  "lobsters")  ;  and  from  King  Lear,  III,  It,   65. 


102  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

may  not  have  been  rendered  more  poignant  by  the  con- 
ceit that  it  would  be  equally  so  to  the  public.  There  was 
a  time,  certainly,  in  which  I  took  some  little  credit  to 
myself  in  the  belief  that  1  had  been  the  first  of  my  coun- 
trymen who  had  pointed  out  the  diverse  meaning  of  which 
the  two  terms  were  capable,  and  analyzed  the  faculties 
to  which  they  should  be  appropriated.  Mr.  W.  Taylor's 
recent  volume  of  Synonyms  I  have  not  yet  seen;  but  his 
specification  of  the  terms  in  question  has  been  clearly 
shown  to  be  both  insufficient  and  erroneous  by  Mr.  Words- 
worth in  the  Preface  added  to  the  late  collection  of  his 
Lyrical  Ballads  and  Other  Poems.^  The  explanation 
which  Mr.  Wordsworth  has  himself  given  will  be  found  to 
differ  from  mine,  chiefly,  perhaps,  as  our  objects  are  dif- 
ferent. It  could  scarcely,  indeed,  happen  otherwise,  from 
the  advantage  I  have  enjoyed  of  frequent  conversation 
with  him  on  a  subject  to  which  a  poem  of  his  own  first 
directed  my  attention,  and  my  conclusions  concerning 
which  he  had  made  more  lucid  to  myself  by  many  happy 
instances  drawn  from  the  operation  of  natural  objects 
on  the  mind.  But  it  was  Mr.  Wordsworth's  purpose  to 
consider  the  influences  of  fancy  and  imagination  as  they 
are  manifested  in  poetry,  and  from  the  different  effects 
to  conclude  their  diversity  in  kind;  while  it  is  my  object 
to  investigate  the  seminal  principle,  and  then  from  the 
kind  to  deduce  the  degree.  My  friend  has  drawn  a  mas- 
terly sketch  of  the  branches  with  their  poetic  fruitage. 
I  wish  to  add  the  trunk,  and  even  the  roots  as  far  as  they 
Kft  themselves  above  ground  and  are  visible  to  the  naked 
eye  of  our  common  consciousness.  ... 

I  shall  now  proceed  to  the  nature  and  genesis  of  the 
imagination;  but  I  must  first  take  leave  to  notice  that, 
after  a  more  accurate  perusal  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  re- 
marks on  the  imagination,  in  his  Preface  to  the  new  edi- 
tion of  his  poems,  I  find  that  my  conclusions  are  not 
80  consentient  with  his  as,  I  confess,  I  had  taken  for 
granted.  In  an  article  contributed  by  me  to  Mr.  Southey's 
Omniana,'  on  the  soul  and  its  organs  of  sense,  are  the  fol- 
lowing sentences.     "These  [the  human  faculties]  I  would 

*  See  page  35. 

*  A  miscellany  published  in  1812 ;  Coleridge's  essay  is  No.  174. 


COLERIDGE  103 

arrange  under  the  different  senses  and  powers:  as  the 
eye,  the  ear,  the  touch,  etc.;  the  imrtative  power,  volun- 
tary and  automatic;  the  imagination,  or  shaping  and 
modifying  power;  the  fancy,  or  the  aggregative  and  asso- 
ciative power;  the  understanding,  or  the  r^ulative,  sub- 
stantiating, and  realizing  power;  the  speculative  reason, 
vis  theoretica  et  scientifica,  or  the  power  by  which  we  pro- 
duce or  aim  to  produce  unity,  necessity,  and  universality 
in  all  our  knowledge  by  means  of  principles  a  priori;  the 
will,  or  practical  reason;  the  faculty  of  choice  (Germanice, 
Willkiir) ;  and  (distinct  both  from  the  moral  will  and  the 
choice)  the  sensation  of  volition,  which  I  have  found  rea- 
son to  include  under  the  head  of  single  and  double  touch." 
To  this,  as  far  as  it  relates  to  the  subject  in  question, 
namely  the  words  "the  aggregative  and  associative 
power,"  Mr.  Wordsworth's  "only  objection  is  that  the  defi- 
nition is  too  general.  To  aggregate  and  to  associate,  to 
evoke  and  to  combine,  belong  as  well  to  the  imagination 
as  to  the  fancy."  I  reply  that  if,  by  the  power  of  evok- 
ing and  combining,  Mr.  Wordsworth  means  the  same  as, 
and  no  more  than,  I  meant  by  the  aggregative  and  asso- 
ciative, I  continue  to  deny  that  it  belongs  at  all  to  the 
imagination ;  and  I  am  disposed  to  conjecture  that  he  has 
mistaken  the  co-presence  of  fancy  with  imagination  for 
the  operation  of  the  latter  singly.  A  man  may  work  with 
two  very  different  tools  at  the  same  moment ;  each  has 
its  share  in  the  work,  but  the  work  effected  by  each  is  dis- 
tinct and  different.  But  it  will  probably  appear  in  the 
next  chapter  that,  deeming  it  necessary  to  go  back  much 
further  than  Mr.  Wordsworth's  subject  required  or  per- 
mitted, I  have  attached  a  meaning  to  both  fancy  and 
imagination  which  he  had  not  in  view,  at  least  while  he 
was  writing  that  preface.  He  will  judge.  Would  to 
heaven  I  might  meet  with  many  such  readers  I  I  will 
conclude  with  the  words  of  Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor:  He 
to  whom  all  things  are  one,  who  draweth  all  things  to  one, 
and  seeth  all  things  in  one,  may  enjoy  true  peace  and 
rest  of  spirit.    (Via  Pads.)  *  .  .  . 

The  imagination,  then,  I  consider  as  either  primary 
or  secondary.    The  primary  imagination  I  hold  to  be  the 

*  See  The  Ooldcn  Orove  (1655),   "Agenda,"  Sunday.    Sec.   8. 


104  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

living  power  and  prime  agent  of  all  human  perception, 
and  as  a  repetition  in  the  finite  mind  of  the  eternal  act 
of  creation  in  the  infinite  I  AM.  The  secondary  imag- 
ination I  consider  as  an  echo  of  the  former,  co-existing 
with  the  conscious  will,  yet  still  as  identical  with  the 
primary  in  the  kind  of  its  agency,  and  differing  only  in 
degree  and  in  the  mode  of  its  operation.  It  dissolves,  dif- 
fuses, dissipates,  in  order  to  recreate;  or  where  this  proc- 
ess is  rendered  impossible,  yet  still  at  all  events  it  strug- 
gles to  idealize  and  to  unify.  It  is  essentially  vital,  even 
as  all  objects  (as  objects)  are  essentially  fixed  and  dead. 

Fancy,  on  the  contrary,  has  no  other  counters  to  play 
with  but  fixities  and  definites.  The  fancy  is  indeed  no 
other  than  a  mode  of  memory  emancipated  from  the  order 
of  time  and  space,  while  it  is  blended  with,  and  modified 
by,  that  empirical  phenomenon  of  the  will  which  we  ex- 
press by  the  word  choice.  But  equally  with  the  ordinary 
memory  the  fancy  must  receive  all  its  materials  ready 
made  from  the  law  of  association. 

Whatever  more  than  this  I  shall  think  it  fit  to  de- 
clare concerning  the  powers  and  privileges  of  the  imag- 
ination, in  the  present  work,  will  be  found  in  the  critical 
essay  on  the  uses  of  the  supernatural  in  poetry,  and  the 
principles  that  regulate  its  introduction,  which  the  reader 
will  find  prefixed  to  the  poem  of  "The  Ancient  Mariner."^ 


THE   'lYRICAL  BALLADS"  AND   THE   DEFINI- 
TION OF  POETRY 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

[The  14th  chapter  of  the  Biographia  Literaria.] 

During  the  first  year  that  Mr.  Wordsworth  and  I  were 
neighbors,^  our  conversations  turned  frequently  on  the  two 
cardinal  points  of  poetry,  the  power  of  exciting  the  sym- 
pathy of  the  reader  by  a  faithful  adherence  to  the  truth 
of  nature,  and  the  power  of  giving  the  interest  of  novelty 

•This  essay  was  never  completed,  much  less  published. 
'  1797-98.  when  Coleridge  resided  at  Nether  Stowey  and  Words- 
worth at  Alfoxden. 


COLERIDGE  105 

by  the  modifying  colors  of  imagination.  The  sudden 
charm  which  accidents  of  light  and  shade,  which  moon- 
light or  sunset  diffused  over  a  known  and  familiar  land- 
scape, appeared  to  represent  the  practicability  of  com- 
bining both.  These  are  the  poetry  of  nature.  The 
thought  suggested  itself  (to  which  of  us  I  do  not  recol- 
lect) that  a  series  of  poems  might  be  composed  of  two 
sorts.  In  the  one,  the  incidents  and  agents  were  to  be, 
in  part  at  least,  supernatural;  and  the  excellence  aimed 
at  was  to  consist  in  the  interesting  of  the  affections  by 
the  dramatic  truth  of  such  emotions  as  would  naturally 
accompany  such  situations,  supposing  them  real.  And 
real  in  this  sense  they  have  been  to  every  human  being 
who,  from  whatever  source  of  delusion,  has  at  any  time 
believed  himself  under  supernatural  agency.  For  the  sec- 
ond class,  subjects  were  to  be  chosen  from  ordinary  life; 
the  characters  and  incidents  were  to  be  such  as  will  be 
found  in  every  village  and  its  vicinity,  where  there  is  a 
meditative  and  feeling  mind  to  seek  after  them,  or  to 
notice  them  when  they  present  themselves. 
•  In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads; 
in  which  it  was  agreed  that  my  endeavors  should  be  di- 
rected to  persons  and  characters  supernatural,  or  at  least 
romantic,  yet  so  as  to  transfer  from  our  inward  nature 
a  human  interest  and  a  semblance  of  truth  sufficient  to 
procure  for  these  shadows  of  imagination  that  willing 
suspension  of  disbelief  for  the  moment,  which  constitutes 
poetic  faith.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  on  the  other  hand,  was  to 
propose  to  himself  as  his  object,  to  give  the  charm  of 
novelty  to  things  of  every  day,  and  to  excite  a  feeling 
analogous  to  the  supernatural,  by  awakening  the  mind's 
attention  from  the  lethargy  of  custom,  and  directing  it 
to  the  loveliness  and  the  wonders  of  the  world  before  us; 
an  inexhaustible  treasure,  but  for  which,  in  consequence 
of  the  film  of  familiarity  and  selfish  solicitude,  we  have 
eyes  yet  see  not,  ears  that  hear  not,  and  hearts  that  neither 
feel  nor  understand. 

With  this  view  I  wrote  "The  Ancient  Mariner,"  and 
was  preparing,  among  other  poems,  "The  Dark  Ladie" 
and  the  "Christabel,"  in  which  I  should  have  more  nearly 
realized  my  ideal  than  I  had  done  in  my  first  attempt. 
But  Mr.  Wordsworth's  industry  had  proved  so  much  more 


106  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

successful,  and  the  number  of  his  poems  so  much  greater, 
that  my  compositions,  instead  of  forming  a  balance,  ap- 
peared rather  an  interpolation  of  heterogeneous  matter. 
Mr.  Wordsworth  added  two  or  three  poems  written  in  his 
own  character,  in  the  impassioned,  lofty,  and  sustained 
diction  which  fs  characteristic  of  his  genius.  In  this  form 
the  Lyrical  Ballads  were  published,  and  were  presented 
by  him  as  an  experiment  whether  subjects  which  from 
their  nature  rejected  the  usual  ornaments  and  extra-col- 
loquial style  of  poems  in  general,  might  not  be  so  man- 
aged in  the  language  of  ordinary  life  as  to  produce  the 
pleasurable  interest  which  it  is  the  peculiar  business  of 
poetry  to  impart.  To  the  second  edition  he  added  a 
preface  of  considerable  length;  in  which,  notwithstanding 
some  passages  of  apparently  a  contrary  import,  he  was 
understood  to  contend  for  the  extension  of  this  style  to 
poetry  of  all  kinds,  and  to  reject  as  vicious  and  inde- 
fensible all  phrases  and  forms  of  style  that  were  not  in- 
cluded in  what  he  (unfortunately,  I  think,  adopting  an 
equivocal  expression)  called  the  language  of  real  life. 
From  this  preface,  prefixed  to  poems  in  which  it  was  im- 
possible to  deny  the  presence  of  original  genius,  however 
mistaken  its  direction  might  be  deemed,  arose  the  whole 
long-continued  controversy.  For  from  the  conjunction  of 
perceived  power  with  supposed  heresy  I  explain  the  in- 
veteracy and  in  some  instances,  I  grieve  to  say,  the  acri- 
monious passions,  with  which  the  controversy  has  been 
conducted  by  the  assailants. 

Had  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poems  been  the  silly,  the  child- 
ish things,  which  they  were  for  a  long  time  described  as 
being;  had  they  been  really  distinguished  from  the  com- 
positions of  other  poets  merely  by  meanness  of  language 
and  inanity  of  thought;  had  they  indeed  contained  noth- 
ing more  than  what  is  found  in  the  parodies  and  pretended 
imitations  of  them;  they  must  have  sunk  at  once,  a  dead 
weight,  into  the  slough  of  oblivion,  and  have  dragged  the 
preface  along  with  them.  But  year  after  year  increased 
the  number  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  admirers.  They  were 
found,  too,  not  in  the  lower  classes  of  the  reading  public, 
but  chiefly  among  young  men  of  strong  sensibility  and 
meditative  minds,  and  their  admiration  (inflamed  perhaps 
in  some  degree  by  opposition)  was  distinguished  by  its 


COLERIDGE  107 

intensity,  I  might  almost  say  by  its  religious  fervor. 
These  facts,  and  the  intellectual  energy  of  the  author, 
which  was  more  or  less  consciously  felt,  where  it  was  out- 
wardly and  even  boisterously  denied,  meeting  with  senti- 
ments of  aversion  to  his  opinions  and  of  alarm  at  their 
consequences,  produced  an  eddy  of  criticism  which  would 
of  itself  have  borne  up  the  poems  by  the  violence  with 
which  it  whirled  them  round  and  round.  With  many 
parts  of  this  preface,  in  the  sense  attributed  to  them  and 
which  the  words  undoubtedly  seem  to  authorize,  I  never 
concurred;  but  on  the  contrary  objected  to  them  as  erro- 
neous in  principle  and  as  contradictory  (in  appearance 
at  least)  both  to  other  parts  of  the  same  preface  and  to 
the  author's  own  practice  in  the  greater  number  of  the 
poems  themselves.  Mr.  Wordsworth  in  his  recent  col- 
lection has,  I  find,  degraded  this  prefatory  disquisition 
to  the  end  of  his  second  volume,  to  be  read  or  not  at  the 
reader's  choice.  But  he  has  not,  as  far  as  I  can  dis- 
cover, announced  any  change  in  his  poetic  creed.  At  all 
events,  considering  it  as  the  source  of  a  controversy  in 
which  I  have  been  honored  more  than  I  deserve  by  the 
frequent  conjunction  of  my  name  with  his,  I  think  it  ex- 
pedient to  declare  once  for  all  in  what  points  I  coincide 
with  his  opinions,  and  in  what  points  I  altogether  dif- 
fer. But  in  order  to  render  myself  intelligible  I  must 
previously,  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  explain  my  ideas, 
first,  of  a  Poem,  and  secondly,  of  Poetry  itself,  in  kind 
and  in  essence. 

The  office  of  philosophical  disquisition  consists  in  just 
distinction,  while  it  is  the  privilege  of  the  philosopher  to 
preserve  himself  constantly  aware  that  distinction  is  not 
division.  In  order  to  obtain  adequate  notions  of  any 
truth,  we  must  intellectually  separate  its  distinguishable 
parts,  and  this  is  the  technical  process  of  philosophy. 
But  having  so  done,  we  must  then  restore  them  in  our 
conceptions  to  the  unity  in  which  they  actually  coexist, 
and  this  is  the  result  of  philosophy.  A  poem  contains 
the  same  elements  as  a  prose  composition ;  the  difference 
therefore  must  consist  in  a  different  combination  of  them, 
in  consequence  of  a  different  object  being  proposed.  Ac- 
cording to  the  difference  of  the  object  will  be  the  differ- 
ence of  the  combination.    It  is  possible  that  the  object 


108  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

may  be  merely  to  facilitate  the  recollection  of  any  given 
facts  or  observations  by  artificial  arrangement,  and  the 
composition  will  be  a  poem  merely  because  it  is  distin- 
guished from  prose  by  meter,  or  by  rhyme,  or  by  both 
conjointly.  In  this,  the  lowest  sense,  a  mam  might  at- 
tribute the  name  of  a  poem  to  the  well-known  enumera- 
tion of  the  days  in  the  several  months : — 

Thirty  days  hath  September, 
April,  June,  and  November;  etc., 

and  others  of  the  same  class  and  purpose.  And  as  a  par- 
ticular pleasure  is  found  in  anticipating  the  recurrence 
of  sounds  and  quantities,  all  compositions  that  have  this 
charm  super-added,  whatever  be  their  contents,  may  be 
entitled  poems. 

So  much  for  the  superficial  form.  A  difference  of  ob- 
ject and  contents  supplies  an  additional  ground  of  dis- 
tinction. The  immediate  purpose  may  be  the  communica- 
tion of  truths, — either  of  truth  absolute  and  demon- 
strable, as  in  works  of  science,  or  of  facts  experienced 
and  recorded,  as  in  history.  Pleasure,  and  that  of  the 
highest  and  most  permanent  kind,  may  result  from  the 
attainment  of  the  end,  but  it  is  not  itself  the  immediate 
end.  In  other  works  the  communication  of  pleasure  may 
be  the  immediate  purpKjse;  and  though  truth,  either  moral 
or  intellectual,  ought  to  be  the  ultimate  end,  yet  this  will 
distinguish  the  character  of  the  author,  not  the  class  to 
which  the  work  belongs.  Blest  indeed  is  that  state  of  so- 
ciety in  which  the  immediate  purpose  would  be  baffled 
by  the  perversion  of  the  proper  ultimate  end ;  in  which  no 
charm  of  diction  or  imagery  could  exempt  the  "Bathyllus" 
even  of  an  Anacreon,  or  the  *'Alexis"  of  Virgil,  from 
disgust  and  avereioni 

But  the  communication  of  pleasure  may  be  the  im- 
mediate object  of  a  work  not  metrically  composed;  and 
that  object  may  have  been  in  a  high  degree  attained,  as 
in  novels  and  romances.  Would,  then,  the  mere  superad- 
dition  of  meter,  with  or  without  rhyme,  entitle  these  to 
the  name  of  poems?  The  answer  is,  that  nothing  can 
permanently  please  which  does  not  contain  in  itself  the 
reason  why  it  is  so  and  not  otherwise.    If  meter  be  super- 


COLEEIDGE  109 

added,  all  other  parts  must  be  made  consonant  with  it. 
They  must  be  such  as  to  justify  the  perj)etual  and  dis- 
tinct attention  to  each  part,  which  an  exact  correspondent 
recurrence  of  accent  and  sound  are  calculated  to  excite. 
The  final  definition,  then,  so  deduced,  may  be  thus  worded. 
A  poem  is  that  species  of  composition  which  is  opposed 
to  works  of  science,^  by  proposing  for  its  immediate  object 
pleasure,  not  truth,  and  from  all  other  species  (having 
this  object  in  common  with  it)  it  is  discriminated  by 
proposing  to  itself  such  delight  from  the  whole  as  is  com- 
patible with  a  distinct  gratification  from  each  compo- 
nent part. 

Controversy  is  not  seldom  excited  in  consequence  of 
the  disputants  attaching  each  a  different  meaning  to  the 
same  word ;  and  in  few  instances  has  this  been  more  strik- 
ing than  in  disputes  concerning  the  present  subject.  If 
a  man  chooses  to  call  every  composition  a  poem  which  is 
rhyme,  or  measure,  or  both,  I  must  leave  his  opinion  un- 
controverted.  The  distinction  is  at  least  competent  to 
characterize  the  writer's  intention.  If  it  were  subjoined 
that  the  whole  is  likewise  entertaining  or  affecting,  as  a 
tale  or  as  a  series  of  interesting  reflections,  I  of  course 
admit  this  as  another  fit  ingredient  of  a  poem,  and  an 
additional  merit.  But  if  the  definition  sought  for  be  that 
of  a  legitimate  poem,  I  answer,  it  must  be  one  the  parts 
of  which  mutually  support  and  explain  each  other,  all 
in  their  proportion  harmonizing  with  and  supporting  the 
purpose  and  known  influences  of  metrical  arrangement. 
The  philosophic  critics  of  all  ages  coincide  with  the  ulti- 
mate judgment  of  all  countries,  in  equally  denying  the 
praises  of  a  just  poem,  on  the  one  hand,  to  a  series  of 
striking  lines  or  distiches  each  of  which,  absorbing  the 
whole  attention  of  the  reader  to  itself,  disjoins  it  from 
its  context,  and  makes  it  a  separate  whole  instead  of  a 
harmonizing  part,  and  on  the  other  hand,  to  an  unsus- 
tained  composition  from  which  the  reader  collects  rapidly 
the  general  result,  unattracted  by  the  component  parts. 
The  reader  should  be  carried  forward,  not  merely  or 
chiefly  by  the  mechanical  impulse  of  curiosity,  or  by  a 
restless  desire  to  arrive  at  the  final  solution,  but  by  the 

'  Compare  Wordsworth,  p.  9,  note  6. 


no  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

pleasurable  activity  of  mind  excited  by  the  attractions 
of  the  journey  itself.  Like  the  motion  of  a  serpent,  which 
the  Egyptians  made  the  emblem  of  intellectual  power,  or 
like  the  path  of  sound  through  the  air,  at  every  step  he 
pauses  and  half  recedes,  and  from  the  retrogressive  move- 
ment collects  the  force  which  again  carries  him  onward. 
"Prsecipitandus  est  liber  spiritus,"  '  says  Petronius  Arbiter 
most  happily.  The  epithet  liber  here  balances  the  pre- 
ceding verb;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  conceive  more  meaning- 
condensed  in  fewer  words. 

But  if  this  should  be  admitted  as  a  satisfactory  char- 
acter of  a  poem,  we  have  still  to  seek  for  a  definition  of 
poetry.  The  writings  of  Plato,  and  Bishop  Taylor,  and 
the  Theoria  Sacra  of  Burnet,*  furnish  undeniable  proofs 
that  poetry  of  the  highest  kind  may  exist  without  meter, 
and  even  without  the  contradistinguishing  objects  of  a 
poem.  The  first  chapter  of  Isaiah  (indeed  a  very  large 
portion  of  the  whole  book)  is  poetry  in  the  most  emphatic 
sense;  yet  it  would  be  not  less  irrational  than  strange 
to  assert  that  pleasure,  and  not  truth,  was  the  immediate 
object  of  the  prophet.  In  short,  whatever  specific  im- 
port we  attach  to  the  word  poetry,  there  will  be  found 
involved  in  it,  as  a  necessary  consequence,  that  a  poem 
of  any  length  neither  can  be,  nor  ought  to  be,  all  poetry. 
Yet  if  an  harmonious  whole  is  to  be  produced,  the  re- 
maining parts  must  be  preserved  in  keeping  with  the 
poetry ;  and  this  can  be  no  otherwise  effected  than  by  such 
a  studied  selection  and  artificial  arrangement  as  will  par- 
take of  one,  though  not  a  peculiar,  property  of  poetry. 
And  this  again  can  be  no  other  than  the  property  of  ex- 
citing a  more  continuous  and  equal  attention  than  the 
language  of  prose  aims  at,  whether  colloquial  or  written. 

My  own  conclusions  on  the  nature  of  poetry,  in  the 
strictest  use  of  the  word,  have  been  in  part  anticipated 
in  the  preceding  disquisition  on  the  fancy  and  imagina- 
tion. What  is  poetry?  is  so  nearly  the  same  question 
with.  What  is  a  poet?  that  the  answer  to  the  one  is  in- 
volved in  the  solution  of  the  other.  For  it  is  a  distinction 
resulting  from  the  poetic  genius  itself,  which  sustains  and 


•  From  the  Batyricon,  118.     "The  free  spirit  is  to  be  vehemently 

•ged  forward." 

<PubliBbed  in  Latin,  1681;  in  English,  1684. 


COLERIDGE  HI 

modifies  the  images,  thoughts,  and  emotions  of  the  poef  s 
own  mind. 

The  poet,  described  in  ideal  perfection,  brings  the  whole 
soul  of  man  into  activity,  with  the  subordination  of  its 
faculties  to  each  other,  according  to  their  relative  worth 
and  dignity.  He  diffuses  a  tone  and  spirit  of  unity,  that 
blends  and  (as  it  were)  fiLses  each  into  each,  by  that  syn- 
thetic and  «iagical  power  to  which  we  have  exclusively 
appropriated  the  name  of  imagination.  This  power,  first 
put  in  action  by  the  will  and  understanding,  and  retained 
under  their  irremissive,  though  gentle  and  unnoticed,  con- 
trol (laxis  effertur  hdbenis),^  reveals  itself  in  the  balance 
or  reconciliation  of  opposite  or  discordant  qualities:  of 
sameness,  with  difference;  of  the  general,  with  the  con- 
crete; the  idea,  with  the  image;  the  individual,  with  the 
representative;  the  sense  of  novelty  and  freshness,  with 
old  and  familiar  objects;  a  more  than  usual  state  of  emo- 
tion, with  more  than  usual  order;  judgment  ever  awake, 
and  steady  self-possession,  with  enthusiasm  and  feeling 
profound  or  vehement;  and  while  it  blends  and  harmon- 
izes the  natural  and  the  artificial,  still  subordinates  art  to 
nature,  the  manner  to  the  matter,  and  our  admiration  of 
the  poet  to  our  sympathy  with  the  poetry.  "Doubtless," 
as  Sir  John  Davies  observes  of  the  soul  (and  his  words 
may  with  slight  alteration  be  applied,  and  even  more  ap- 
propriately, to  the  poetic  imagination), — 

Doubtless  this  could  not  be,  but  that  she  turns 
Bodies  to  spirit  bv  sublimation  strange, 

As  fire  converts  to  nre  the  things  it  burns, 
As  we  our  food  into  our  nature  change. 

From  their  gross  matter  she  abstracts  their  forma. 
And  draws  a  kind  of  quintessence  from  things; 

Which  to  her  proper  nature  she  transforms, 
To  bear  them  light  on  her  celestial  wings. 

Thus  does  she,  when  from  individual  states 
She  doth  abstract  the  universal  kinds; 

Which  then,  recloth'd  in  divers  names  and  fates. 
Steal  access  through  oiur  senses  to  our  minds.* 

•  "la  borne  alon^  with  loosened  reins." 

•  Quoted,  with  some  alterations,  from  Davies'  poem,  "On  the 
8onl  of  Man  and  the  Immortality  Thereof." 


112  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

Finally,  good  sense  is  the  body  of  poetic  genius,  fancy 
its  drapery,  motion  its  life,  and  imagination  the  soul  that 
is  everywhere,  and  in  each,  and  forms  all  into  one  grace- 
ful and  intelligent  whole. 


WOEDSWOKTH'S  THEORY  OF  POETIC  DICTION 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

[From  chapters  17  and  18  of  the  Biographia  Literaria.] 

As  far  then  as  Mr.  Wordsworth  in  his  Preface  contended, 
and  most  ably  contended,  for  a  reformation  in  our  poetic 
diction;  as  far  as  he  has  evinced  the  truth  of  passion, 
and  the  dramatic  propriety  of  those  figures  and  meta- 
phors in  the  original  poets,  which,  stripped  of  their  jus- 
tifying reasons,  and  converted  into  mere  artifices  of  con- 
nection or  ornament,  constitute  the  characteristic  falsity 
in  the  poetic  style  of  the  moderns;  and  as  far  as  he  has, 
with  equal  acuteness  and  clearness,  pointed  out  the  proc- 
ess by  which  this  change  was  effected,  and  the  resem- 
blances between  that  state  into  which  the  reader's  mind  is 
thrown  by  the  pleasurable  confusion  of  thought  from  an 
unaccustomed  train  of  words  and  images,  and  that  state 
which  is  induced  by  the  natural  language  of  empas- 
sioned  feeling, — he  undertook  a  useful  task,  and  deserves 
all  praise  both  for  the  attempt  and  for  the  execution.  The 
provocations  to  this  remonstrance  in  behalf  of  truth  and 
nature  were  still  of  perpetual  recurrence  before  and  after 
the  publication  of  this  preface.  I  cannot  likewise  but 
add  that  the  comparison  of  such  poems  of  merit  as  have 
been  given  to  the  public  within  the  last  ten  or  twelve 
years,  with  the  majority  of  those  produced  previously 
to  the  appearance  of  that  preface,  leave  no  doubt  on  my 
mind  that  Mr.  Wordsworth  is  fully  justified  in  believing 
his  efforts  to  have  been  by  no  means  ineffectual.  Not 
only  in  the  verses  of  those  who  have  professed  their  ad- 
miration of  his  genius,  but  even  of  those  who  have  dis- 
tinguished themselves  by  hostility  to  his  theory,  and 
depreciation  of  his  writings,  are  the  impressions  of  his 
principles  plainly  visible.    It  is  possible  that  with  these 


COLERIDGE  113 

principles  others  may  have  been  blended,  which  are  not 
equally  evident,  and  some  which  are  unsteady  and  sub- 
vertible  from  the  narrowness  or  imperfection  of  their 
basis.  But  it  is  more  than  possible  that  these  errors  of 
defect  or  exaggeration,  by  kindling  and  feeding  the  con- 
troversy, may  have  conduced  not  only  to  the  wider  prop- 
agation of  the  accompanying  truths,  but  that,  by  their 
frequent  presentation  to  the  mind  in  an  excited  state, 
they  may  have  won  for  them  a  more  permanent  and  prac- 
tical result.  A  man  will  borrow  a  part  from  his  oppo- 
nent the  more  easily,  if  he  feels  himself  justified  in  con- 
tinuing to  reject  a  part.  While  there  remain  important 
points  in  which  he  can  still  feel  himself  in  the  right,  in 
which  he  still  finds  firm  footing  for  continued  resistance, 
he  will  gradually  adopt  those  opinions  which  were  the 
least  remote  from  his  own  convictions,  as  not  less  con- 
gruous with  his  own  theory  than  with  that  which  he  rep- 
robates. Iia  like  manner,  with  a  kind  of  instinctive  pru- 
dence, he  will  abandon  by  little  and  little  his  weakest 
posts,  till  at  length  he  seems  to  forget  that  they  had 
ever  belonged  to  him,  or  affects  to  consider  them  at  most 
as  accidental  and  "petty  annexments,"  the  removal  of 
which  leaves  the  citadel  unhurt  and  unendangered. 

My  own  diflFerences  from  certain  supposed  parts  of 
Mr.  Wordsworth's  theory  ground  themselves  on  the  as- 
sumption that  his  words  had  been  rightly  interpreted  as 
purporting  that  the  proper  diction  for  poetry  in  general 
consists  altogether  in  a  language  taken,  with  due  excep- 
tions, from  the  mouths  of  men  in  real  life, — a  langiuige 
which  actually  constitutes  the  natural  conversation  of 
men  under  the  influence  of  natural  feelings.  My  objec- 
tion is,  first,  that  in  any  sense  this  rule  is  applicable  only 
to  certain  classes  of  poetry;  secondly,  that  even  to  these 
classes  it  is  not  applicable  except  in  such  a  sense  as  hath 
never  by  any  one  (as  far  as  I  know  or  have  read)  been 
denied  or  doubted;  and  lastly,  that  as  far  as,  and  in  that 
degree  in  which,  it  is  practicable,  yet  as  a  rule  it  is  use- 
less, if  not  injurious,  and  therefore  either  need  not  or 
ought  not  to  be  practiced.  The  poet  informs  his  reader 
that  he  had  generally  chosen  low  and  j^istic  life,  but  not 
as  low  and  rustic,  or  in  order  to  repeat  that  pleasure,  of 
doubtful  moral  effect,  which  persons  of  elevated  rank  and 


114  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

of  superior  refinement  oftentimes  derive  from  a  happy 
imitation  of  the  rude  unpolished  manners  and  discourse 
of  their  inferiors.  For  the  pleasure  so  derived  may  be 
traced  to  three  exciting  causes.  The  first  is  the  natural- 
ness, in  fact,  of  the  things  represented.  The  second  is 
the  apparent  naturalness  of  the  representation,  as  raised 
and  qualified  by  an  imperceptible  infusion  of  the  author's 
own  knowledge  and  talent,  which  infusion  does  indeed 
constitute  it  an  imitation  as  distinguished  from  a  mere 
copy.  The  third  cause  may  be  found  in  the  reader's  con- 
scious feeling  of  his  superiority  awakened  by  the  con- 
trast presented  to  him,  even  as  for  the  same  purpose  the 
kings  and  great  barons  of  yore  retained  sometimes  actual 
clowns  and  fools,  but  more  frequently  shrewd  and  witty 
fellows  in  that  character.  These,  however,  were  not  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  objects.  He  chose  low  and  rustic  life, 
"because  in  that  condition  the  essential  passions  of  the 
heart  find  a  better  soil,  in  which  they  can  attain  their 
maturity,  are  less  under  restraint,  and  speak  a  plainer  and 
more  emphatic  language;  because  in  that  condition  of 
life  our  elementary  feelings  coexist  in  a  state  of  greater 
simplicity,  and  consequently  may  be  more  accurately  con- 
templated, and  more  forcibly  coromunicated ;  because  the 
manners  of  rural  life  germinate  from  those  elementary 
feelings;  and  from  the  necessary  character  of  rural  occu- 
pations are  more  easily  comprehended,  and  are  more 
durable;  and  lastly,  because  in  that  condition  the  pas- 
sions of  men  are  incorporated  with  the  beautiful  and 
permanent  forms  of  nature."  ^ 

Now  it  is  clear  to  me  that,  in  the  most  interesting  of 
the  poems,  in  which  the  author  is  more  or  less  dramatic, 
as  "The  Brothers,"  "Michael,"  "Ruth,"  "The  Mad 
Mother,"  etc.,  the  persons  introduced  are  by  no  means 
taken  from  low  or  rustic  life  in  the  common  acceptation 
of  those  words;  and  it  is  not  less  clear  that  the  senti- 
ments and  language,  as  far  as  they  can  be  conceived  to 
have  been  really  transferred  from  the  minds  and  con- 
versation of  such  persons,  are  attributable  to  causes  and 
circumstances  not  necessarily  connected  with  "their  oc- 
cupations and  abode."    The  thoughts,  feelings,  language, 

*  See  page  8. 


COLERIDGE  115 

and  manners  of  the  shepherd-farmers  in  the  vales  of 
Cumberland  and  Westmoreland,  as  far  as  they  are  actually 
adopted  in  those  poems,  may  be  accounted  for  from  causes 
which  will  and  do  produce  the  same  results  in  every  state 
of  life,  whether  in  town  or  country.  As  the  two  prin- 
cipal I  rank  that  independence,  which  raises  a  man  above 
servitude,  or  daily  toil  for  the  profit  of  others,  yet  not 
above  the  necessity  of  industry  and  a  frugal  simplicity  of 
domestic  life,  and  the  accompanying  unambitious  but 
solid  and  religious  education,  which  has  rendered  few 
books  familiar  but  the  Bible  and  the  liturgy  or  hymn- 
book.  To  this  latter  cause,  indeed,  which  is  so  far  acci- 
dental that  it  is  the  blessing  of  particular  countries  and 
a  particular  age,  not  the  product  of  particular  places  or 
employments,  the  poet  owes  the  show  of  probability  that 
his  personages  might  really  feel,  think,  and  talk  with  any 
tolerable  resemblance  to  his  representation.  It  is  an  ex- 
cellent remark  of  Dr.  Henry  More's,  that  "a  man  of 
confined  education,  but  of  good  parts,  by  constant  read- 
ing of  the  Bible  will  naturally  form  a  more  winning  and 
commanding  rhetoric  than  those  that  are  learned,  the 
intermixture  of  tongues  and  of  artificial  phrases  debas- 
ing   their  style."      (Enthiisiasmiis    Triumphatiis,^    Sec 

XXXV.) 

It  is,  moreover,  to  be  considered  that  to  the  formation 
of  healthy  feelings,  and  a  reflecting  mind,  negations  in- 
volve impediments  not  less  formidable  than  sophistica- 
tion and  vicious  intermixture.  I  am  convinced  that  for 
the  human  soul  to  prosper  in  rustic  life  a  certain  van- 
tage-ground is  prerequisite.  It  is  not  every  man  that  is 
likely  to  be  improved  by  a  country  life  or  by  country  la- 
bors. Education,  or  original  sensibility,  or  both,  must 
pre-exist,  if  the  changes,  forms,  and  incidents  of  nature 
are  to  prove  a  sufficient  stimulant.  And  where  these  are 
not  sufficient,  the  mind  contracts  and  hardens  by  want 
of  stimulants,  and  the  man  becomes  selfish,  sensual,  gross, 
and  hard-hearted.  Let  the  management  of  the  Poor  Laws 
in  Liverpool,  Manchester,  or  Bristol  be  compared  with 
the  ordinary  dispensation  of  the  poor  rates  in  agricultural 
villages,  where  the  farmers  are  the  overseers  and  guardi- 

*  Published  1656. 


U6  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

ans  of  the  poor.  If  my  own  experience  has  not  been  par- 
ticularly unfortunate,  as  well  as  that  of  the  many  re- 
spectable country  clergymen  with  whom  I  have  conversed 
on  the  subject,  the  result  would  engender  more  than  skep- 
ticism concerning  the  desirable  influences  of  low  and 
rustic  life  in  and  for  itself.  Whatever  may  be  concluded 
on  the  other  side,  from  the  stronger  local  attachments 
and  enterprising  spirit  of  the  Swiss  and  other  mountain- 
eers, applies  to  a  particular  mode  of  pastoral  life,  under 
forms  of  property  that  permit  and  beget  manners  truly 
republican,  not  to  rustic  life  in  general,  or  to  the  absence 
of  artificial  cultivation.  On  the  contrary  the  mountain- 
eers, whose  manners  have  been  so  often  eulogized,  are 
in  general  better  educated  and  greater  readers  than  men 
of  equal  rank  elsewhere.  But  where  this  is  not  the  case, 
as  among  the  peasantry  of  North  Wales,  the  ancient 
mountains,  with  all  their  terrors  and  all  their  glories, 
are  pictures  to  the  blind  and  music  to  the  deaf. 

I  should  not  have  entered  so  much  into  detail  upon 
this  passage,  but  here  seems  to  be  the  point  to  which  all 
the  lines  of  difFerence  converge  as  to  their  source  and 
center.  (I  mean,  as  far  as,  and  in  whatever  respect, 
my  poetic  creed  does  differ  from  the  doctrines  promulgated 
in  this  Preface.)  I  adopt  with  full  faith  the  principle 
of  Aristotle,  that  poetry  as  poetry  is  essentially  ideal, 
that  it  avoids  and  excludes  all  accident;^  that  its  apparent 
individualities  of  rank,  character,  or  occupation  must  be 
representative  of  a  class;  and  that  the  persons  of  poetry 
must  be  clothed  with  generic  attributes,  with  the  common 
attributes  of  the  class, — not  with  such  as  one  gifted  in- 
dividual might  possibly  possess,  but  such  as  from  his 
situation  it  is  most  probable  beforehand  that  he  would 
possess.  If  my  premises  are  right  and  my  deductions 
legitimate,  it  follows  that  there  can  be  no  poetic  medium 
between  the  swains  of  Theocritus  and  those  of  an  imag- 
inary golden  age. 

The  characters  of  the  vicar  and  the  shepherd-mariner  in 
the  poem  of  "The  Brothers,"  that  of  the  shepherd   of 

•  See  the  note  from  the  Poetics  on  p.  13.  In  the  same  con- 
nection Aristotle  says :  "It  is  not  the  function  of  the  poet  to 
relate  what  has  happened,  but  what  may  happen, — what  Is  pos- 
sible according  to  the  law  of  probability  or  necessity."  (Butcher 
translation.) 


COLERIDGE  117 

Greenhead  Ghyll  in  the  "Michael,"  have  all  the  verisimili- 
tude and  r^resentative  quality  that  the  purposes  of  poetry 
can  require.  They  are  persons  of  a  known  and  abiding 
class,  and  their  manners  and  sentiments  the  natural  prod- 
uct of  circumstances  common  to  the  class.*  .  .  .  On  the 
other  hand,  in  the  poems  which  are  pitched  at  a  lower 
note,  as  the  "Harry  Gill,"  "Idiot  Boy,"  the  feelings  are 
those  of  human  nature  in  general,  though  the  poet  has 
judiciously  laid  the  scene  in  the  country,  in  order  to 
place  himself  in  the  vicinity  of  interesting  images,  with- 
out the  necessity  of  ascribing  a  sentimental  perception  of 
their  beauty  to  the  persons  of  his  drama.  In  the  "Idiot 
Boy,"  indeed,  the  mother's  character  is  not  so  much  a 
real  and  native  product  of  a  "situation  where  the  essential 
passions  of  the  heart  find  a  better  soil,  in  which  they 
can  attain  their  maturity  and  speak  a  plainer  and  more 
emphatic  language,"  as  it  is  an  impersonation  of  an  in- 
stinct abandoned  by  judgment.  Hence  the  two  follow- 
ing charges  seem  to  me  not  wholly  groundless:  at  least 
they  are  the  only  plausible  objections  which  I  have  heard 
to  that  fine  poem.  The  one  is,  that  the  author  has  not  in 
the  poem  itself  taken  sufficient  care  to  preclude  from  the 
reader's  fancy  the  disgusting  images  of  ordinary  morbid 
idiocy,  which  yet  it  was  by  no  means  his  intention  to 
represent.  He  has  even  by  the  "burr,  burr,  burr,"  un- 
counteracted  by  any  preceding  description  of  the  boy's 
beauty,  assisted  in  recalling  them.  The  other  is,  that  the 
idiocy  of  the  boy  is  so  evenly  balanced  by  the  folly  of 
the  mother  as  to  present  to  the  general  reader  rather  a 
laughable  burlesque  on  the  blindness  of  anile  dotage, 
than  an  analytic  display  of  maternal  affection  in  its  ordi- 
nary workings. 

In  "The  Thorn"  the  poet  himself  acknowledges  in  a 
note  the  necessity  of  an  introductory  poem,  in  which  he 
should  have  portrayed  the  character  of  the  person  from 
whom  the  words  of  the  poem  are  supposed  to  proceed: 
a  superstitious  man,  moderately  imaginative,  of  slow- 
faculties  and  deep  feelings,  "a  captain  of  a  small  trad- 
ing vessel,  for  example,  who,  being  past  the  middle  age 
of  life,  had  retired  upon  an  annuity,  or  small  independent 

*The  omitted  passage  is  an  extended  quotation  from  "MichaeL" 


118  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

income,  to  some  village  or  country  town  of  ■which  he  wa8 
not  a  native,  or  in  which  he  had  not  been  accustomed 
to  live.  Such  men,  having  nothing  to  do,  become  credu- 
lous and  talkative  from  indolence."  But  in  a  poem,  still 
more  in  a  lyric  poem  (and  the  Nurse  in  Shakespeare's 
Borneo  and  Juliet  alone  prevents  me  from  extending  the 
remark  even  to  dramatic  poetry,  if  indeed  the  Nurse  itself 
can  be  deemed  altogether  a  case  in  point),  it  is  not  pos- 
sible to  imitate  truly  a  dull  and  garrulous  discourser, 
without  repeating  the  effects  of  dullness  and  garrulity. 
However  this  may  be,  I  dare  assert  that  the  parts  (and 
these  form  the  far  larger  portion  of  the  whole)  which 
might  as  well  or  still  better  have  proceeded  from  the  poet's 
own  imagination,  and  have  been  spoken  in  his  own  char- 
acter, are  those  which  have  given,  and  which  will  con- 
tinue to  give,  universal  delight;  and  that  the  passages 
exclusively  appropriate  to  the  supposed  narrator,  such  as 
the  last  couplet  of  the  third  stanza,^  the  seven  last  lines 
of  the  tenth,*  and  the  five  following  stanzas,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  four  admirable  lines  at  the  commencement 
of  the  fourteenth,  are  felt  by  many  unprejudiced  and  un- 
sophisticated hearts  as  sudden  and  unpleasant  sinkings 
from  the  height  to  which  the  poet  had  previously  lifted 
them,  and  to  which  he  again  re-elevates  both  himself  and 
his  reader. 

If,  then,  I  am  compelled  to  doubt  the  theory  by  which 
the  choice  of  characters  was  to  be  directed, /not  only  o 
priori,  from  grounds  of  reason,  but  both  from  the  few  in- 
stances in  which  the  poet  himself  need  be  supposed  to 
have  been  governed  by  it,  and  from  the  comparative  in- 
feriority of  those  instances;  still  more  must  I  hesitate 
in  my  assent  to  the  sentence  which  immediately  follows 
the  former  citation,  and  which  I  can  neither  admit  as 

•  I've  measured  It  from  side  to  side ; 
'Tl8  three  feet  long  and  two  feet  wide. 

Thlg  couplet  was  revised  by  Wordsworth  to  read  : 
Though  but  of  compass  small,  and  bare 
To  thirsty  suns  and  parching  air. 

•  Nay,  rack  your  brain — 'tis  all  in  vain, 
I'll   tell   you   everything  I    know ; 

But  to  the  Thorn,  and  to  the  pond 
Which  is  a  little  step  beyond, 
I  wish  that  you  would  go ; 
Perhaps  when  you  are  at  the  place. 
You  something  of  her  tale  may  trace. 


COLEKIDGE  119 

particTilar  fact  or  as  general  rule.  "The  language  too 
of  these  men  is  adopted  (purified  indeed  from  what  ap- 
pear to  be  its  real  defects,  from  all  lasting  and  rational 
causes  of  dislike  or  disgust),  because  such  men  hourly 
communicate  with  the  best  objects  from  which  the  best 
part  of  language  is  originally  derived;  and  because,  from 
their  rank  in  society  and  the  sameness  and  narrow  circle 
of  their  intercourse,  being  less  under  the  action  of  social 
vanity,  they  convey  their  feelings  and  notions  in  simple 
and  unelaborated  expressions."  To  this  I  reply  that  a 
rustic's  language,  purified  from  all  provincialism  and 
grossness,  and  so  far  reconstructed  as  to  be  made  con- 
sistent with  the  rules  of  grammar  (which  are  in  essence 
no  other  than  the  laws  of  universal  logic,  applied  to 
psychological  materials),  will  not  differ  from  the  language 
of  any  other  man  of  common  sense,  however  learned  or 
refined  he  may  be,  except  as  far  as  the  notions  which  the 
rustic  has  to  convey  are  fewer  and  more  indiscriminate. 
This  will  become  still  clearer  if  we  add  the  consideration 
(equally  important  though  less  obvious)  that  the  rustic, 
from  the  more  imperfect  development  of  his  faculties, 
and  from  the  lower  state  of  their  cultivation,  aims  almost 
solely  to  convey  insulated  facts,  either  those  of  his  scanty 
experience  or  his  traditional  belief;  while  the  educated 
man  chiefly  seeks  to  discover  and  express  those  connec- 
tions of  things,  or  those  relative  bearings  of  fact  to  fact, 
from  which  some  more  or  less  general  law  is  deducible. 
For  facts  are  valuable  to  a  wise  man  chiefly  as  they  lead 
to  the  discovery  of  the  indwelling  law  which  is  the  true 
being  of  things,  the  sole  solution  of  their  modes  of  ex- 
istence, and  in  the  knowledge  of  which  consists  our  dignity 
and  our  power. 

As  little  can  I  agree  with  the  assertion  that  from  the 
objects  with  which  the  rustic  hourly  communicates  the 
best  part  of  language  is  formed.  For  first,  if  to  communi- 
cate with  an  object  implies  such  an  acquaintance  with  it 
as  renders  it  capable  of  being  discriminately  reflected  on, 
the  distinct  knowledge  of  an  uneducated  rustic  would 
furnish  a  very  scanty  vocabulary.  The  few  things,  and 
modes  of  action,  requisite  for  his  bodily  conveniences, 
would  alone  be  individualized,  while  all  the  rest  of  nature 
would  be  expressed  by  a  small  number  of  confused  gen- 


120  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

eral  terms.  Secondly,  I  deny  that  the  words  and  combi- 
nations of  words  derived  from  the  objects  with  which  the 
rustic  is  familiar,  whether  with  distinct  or  confused 
knowledge,  can  be  justly  said  to  form  the  best  part  o'f 
language.  It  is  more  than  probable  that  many  classes  of 
the  brute  creation  possess  discriminating  sounds,  by  which 
they  can  convey  to  each  other  notices  of  such  objects  as 
concern  their  food,  shelter,  or  safety.  Yet  we  hesitate 
to  call  the  aggregate  of  such  sounds  a  language,  otherwise 
than  metaphorically.  The  best  part  of  human  language, 
properly  so  called,  is  derived  from  reflection  on  the  acts 
of  the  mind  itself.  It  is  formed  by  a  voluntary  appro- 
priation of  fixed  symbols  to  internal  acts,  to  processes 
and  results  of  imagination,  the  greater  part  of  which  have 
no  place  in  the  consciousness  of  uneducated  man,  though 
in  civilized  society,  by  imitation  and  passive  remembrance 
of  what  they  hear  from  their  religious  instructors  and 
other  superiors,  the  most  uneducated  share  in  the  harvest 
which  they  neither  sowed  nor  reaped.  If  the  history  of 
the  phrases  in  hourly  currency  among  our  peasants  were 
traced,  a  person  not  previously  aware  of  the  fact  would 
be  surprised  at  finding  so  large  a  number  which  three  or 
four  centuries  ago  were  the  exclusive  property  of  the 
universities  and  the  schools,  and  at  the  commencement  of 
the  Reformation  had  been  transferred  from  the  school  to 
the  pulpit,  and  thus  gradually  passed  into  common  life. 
The  extreme  difficulty,  and  often  the  impossibility,  of 
finding  words  for  the  simplest  moral  and  intellectual 
processes  of  the  languages  of  uncivilized  tribes  has  proved 
perhaps  the  weightiest  obstacle  to  the  progress  of  our 
most  zealous  and  adroit  missionaries.  Yet  these  tribes 
are  surrounded  by  the  same  nature  as  our  peasants  are, 
but  in  still  more  impressive  forms,  and  they  are,  more- 
over, obliged  to  particularize  many  more  of  them.  When, 
therefore,  Mr.  Wordsworth  adds,  "accordingly,  such  a 
language"  (meaning,  as  before,  the  language  of  rustic  life 
purified  from  provincialism),  "arising  out  of  repeated  ex- 
perience and  regular  feelings,  is  a  more  permanent,  and 
a  far  more  philosophical  language,  than  that  which  is 
frequently  substituted  for  it  by  poets,  who  think  they  are 
conferring  honor  upon  themselves  and  their  art  in  pro- 
portion as  they  indulge  in  arbitrary  and  capricious  habits 


COLERIDGE  121 

of  expression," — it  may  be  answered  that  the  language 
which  he  has  in  view  can  be  attributed  to  rustics  with 
no  greater  right  than  the  style  of  Hooker  or  Bacon  to 
Tom  Brown  or  Sir  Roger  L'EstrangeJ  Doubtless,  if  what 
is  peculiar  to  each  were  omitted  in  each,  the  result  must 
needs  be  the  same.  Further,  that  the  poet  who  uses  an 
illogical  diction,  or  a  style  fitted  to  excite  only  the  low 
and  changeable  pleasure  of  wonder  by  means  of  ground- 
less novelty,  substitutes  a  language  of  folly  and  vanity, 
not  for  that  of  the  rustic,  but  for  that  of  good  sense  and 
natural  feeling. 

Here  let  me  be  permitted  to  remind  the  reader  that  the 
positions  which  I  controvert  are  contained  in  the  sen- 
tences: "a  selection  of  the  real  language  of  men";  "the 
language  of  these  men"  (i.e.  men  in  low  and  rustic  life) 
"I  propose  to  myself  to  imitate,  and,  as  far  as  is  possible, 
to  adopt  the  very  language  of  men."  "Between  the  lan- 
guage of  prose  and  that  of  metrical  composition,  there 
neither  is  nor  can  be  any  essential  difference."  It  is 
against  these  exclusively  that  my  opposition  is  directed. 

I  object,  in  the  very  first  instance,  to  an  equivocation 
in  the  use  of  the  word  "real."  Every  man's  language 
varies,  according  to  the  extent  of  his  knowledge,  the  activ- 
ity of  his  faculties,  and  the  depth  or  quickness  of  his 
feelings.  Every  man's  language  has,  first,  its  individuali- 
ties ;  secondly,  the  common  properties  of  the  class  to  which 
he  belongs;  and  thirdly,  words  and  phrases  of  universal 
use.  The  language  of  Hooker,  Bacon,  Bishop  Taylor,  and 
Burke  differs  from  the  common  language  of  the  learned 
class  only  by  the  superior  number  and  novelty  of  the 
thoughts  and  relations  which  they  had  to  convey.  The 
language  of  Algernon  Sidney  *  differs  not  at  all  from  that 
which  every  well-educated  gentleman  would  wish  to  write, 
and  (with  due  allowances  for  the  undeliberateness,  and 
less  connected  train  of  thinking  natural  and  proper  to 
conversation)  such  as  he  would  wish  to  talk.  Neither 
one  nor  the  other  differ  half  so  much  from  the  general 
language  of  cultivated  society  as  the  language  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  homeliest  composition  differs  from  that  of 
a  common  peasant.     For  "real,"  therefore,  we  must  sub- 

'  Brown   and   L'Estranjre  wero  pamphleteers ;  both   died  In   1704. 
"Author  of  Discourars  Ct/ncerning  0»vcmment    (1698). 


122  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

stitute  ordinary,  or  lingua  communis.  And  this,  we  have 
proved,  is  no  more  to  be  found  in  the  phraseology  of  low 
and  rustic  life  than  in  that  of  any  other  class.  Omit 
the  peculiarities  of  each,  and  the  result  of  course  must 
be  common  to  all.  And  assuredly  the  omissions  and 
changes  to  be  made  in  the  language  of  rustics,  before  it 
could  be  transferred  to  any  species  of  poem  (except  the 
drama  or  other  professed  imitation),  are  at  least  as  numer- 
ous and  weighty  as  would  be  required  in  adapting  to  the 
same  purpose  the  ordinary  language  of  tradesmen  and 
manufacturers.  Not  to  mention,  that  the  language  so 
highly  extolled  by  Mr.  Wordsworth  varies  in  every  county, 
nay  in  every  village,  according  to  the  accidental  character 
of  the  clergyman,  the  existence  or  non-existence  of  schools, 
or  even,  perhaps,  as  the  exciseman,  publican,  or  barber 
happen  to  be,  or  not  to  be,  zealous  politicians  and  readers 
of  the  weekly  newspaper  pro  hono  publico.  Anterior  to 
cultivation,  the  lingua  communis  of  every  country,  as 
Dante  has  well  observed,  exists  everywhere  in  parts,  and 
nowhere  as  a  whole." 

Neither  is  the  case  rendered  at  all  more  tenable  by  the 
words  "in  a  state  of  excitement."  For  the  nature  of  a 
man's  words,  where  he  is  strongly  affected  by  joy,  grief, 
or  anger,  must  necessarily  depend  on  the  number  and 
quality  of  the  general  truths,  conceptions,  and  images, 
and  of  the  words  expressing  them,  with  which  his  mind 
had  been  previously  stored.  For  the  property  of  passion 
is  not  to  create,  but  to  set  in  increased  activity.  At  least, 
whatever  new  connections  of  thoughts  or  images,  or 
(which  is  equally,  if  not  more  than  equally,  the  appro- 
priate effect  of  strong  excitement)  whatever  generaliza- 
tions of  truth  or  experience,  the  heat  of  passion  may  pro- 
duce, yet  the  terms  of  their  conveyance  must  have  pre- 
existed in  his  former  conversations,  and  are  only  collected 
and  crowded  together  by  the  unusual  stimulation.  It  is 
indeed  very  possible  to  adopt  in  a  poem  the  unmeaning 
repetitions,  habitual  phrases,  and  other  blank  counters, 
which  an  unfurnished  or  confused  understanding  inter- 

*  CoIerldKe  seems  to  refer  to  a  passage  in  the  De  Vulgari  Eloquio, 
1,  16,  where  Dante  says  that  the  standard  vulgar  tongue  may  be 
traced  in  every  district  but  resides  in  none  ("in  qualibet  redolet 
civitate,  nee  cubat  in  ulia"). 


COLERIDGE  123 

poses  at  short  intervals,  in  order  to  keep  hold  of  his 
subject,  which  is  still  slipping  from  him,  and  to  give 
him  time  for  recollection,  or  in  mere  aid  of  vacancy,  as 
in  the  scanty  companies  of  a  country  stage  the  same  player 
pops  backwards  and  forwards,  in  order  to  prevent  the 
appearance  of  empty  spaces,  in  the  procession  of  Macbeth 
or  Henry  VIII.  But  what  assistance  to  the  poet,  or 
ornament  to  the  poem,  these  can  supply,  I  am  at  a  loss 
to  conjecture.  Nothing  assuredly  can  differ  in  origin 
or  in  mode  more  widely  from  the  apparent  tautologies 
of  intense  and  turbulent  feeling,  in  which  the  passion  is 
greater  and  of  longer  endurance  than  to  be  exhausted  or 
satisfied  by  a  single  representation  of  the  image  or  inci- 
dent exciting  it.  Such  repetitions  I  admit  to  be  a  beauty 
of  the  highest  kind,  as  illustrated  by  Mr.  Wordsworth 
himself  from  the  song  of  Deborah :  "At  her  feet  he  bowed, 
he  fell,  he  lay  down ;  at  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  fell ;  where 
he  bowed,  there  he  fell  down  dead."  ^° 

I  conclude,  therefore,  that  the  attempt  is  impracticable, 
and  that,  were  it  not  impracticable,  it  would  still  be  use- 
less. For  the  very  power  of  making  the  selection  implies 
the  previous  possession  of  the  language  selected.  Or 
where  can  the  poet  have  lived?  And  by  what  rules  could 
he  direct  his  choice,  which  would  not  have  enabled  him 
to  select  and  arrange  his  words  by  the  light  of  his  own 
judgment?  We  do  not  adopt  the  language  of  a  class  by 
the  mere  adoption  of  such  words  exclusively  as  that  class 
would  use,  or  at  least  understand,  but  likewise  by  follow- 
ing the  order  in  which  the  words  of  such  men  are  wont 
to  succeed  each  other.  Now  this  order,  in  the  intercourse 
of  uneducated  men,  is  distinguished  from  the  diction  of 
their  superiors  in  knowledge  and  power,  by  the  greater  dis- 
junction and  separation  in  the  component  parts  of  that — 
whatever  it  be — which  they  wish  to  communicate.  There 
is  a  want  of  that  prospectiveness  of  mind,  that  surview, 
which  enables  a  man  to  foresee  the  whole  of  what  he  is  to 
convey,  appertaining  to  any  one  point,  and  by  this  means 
so  to  subordinate  and  arrange  the  different  parts  according 
to  their  relative  importance,  as  to  convey  it  at  once,  and 
as  an  organized  whole. 

^Judges  5:27. 


124  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Now  I  will  take  the  first  stanza,  on  which  I  have  chanced 
to  open,  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
simple  and  the  least  peculiar  in  its  language. 

In  distant  countries  have  I  been, 
And  yet  I  have  not  often  seen 
A  healthy  man,  a  man  full  grown. 
Weep  in  the  public  roads  alone. 
But  such  a  one,  on  English  ground, 
And  in  the  broad  highway,  I  met; 
Along  the  broad  highway  he  came. 
His  cheeks  with  tears  were  wet: 
Sturdy  he  seem'd,  though  he  was  sad; 
And  in  his  arms  a  Iamb  he  had." 

The  words  here  are  doubtless  such  as  are  current  in  all 
ranks  of  life,  and  of  course  not  less  so  in  the  hamlet  and 
cottage  than  in  the  shop,  manufactory,  college,  or  palace. 
But  is  this  the  order  in  which  the  rustic  would  have  placed 
the  words?  I  am  grievously  deceived  if  the  following 
less  compact  mode  of  commencing  the  same  tale  be  not  a 
far  more  faithful  copy.  "I  have  been  in  many  parts,  far 
and  near,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  saw  before  a  man 
crying  by  himself  in  the  public  road,  a  grown  man,  I 
mean,  that  was  neither  sick  nor  hurt,"  etc.,  etc.  But 
when  I  turn  to  the  following  stanza  in  "The  Thorn," — 

At  all  times  of  the  day  and  night 

This  wretched  woman  thither  goes, 

And  she  is  known  to  every  star. 

And  every  wind  that  blows: 

And  there,  beside  the  thorn,  she  sits, 

Whea  the  blue  daylight's  in  the  skies. 

And  when  the  whirlwind's  on  the  hill. 

Or  frosty  air  is  keen  and  still; 

And  to  herself  she  ories, 

"Oh  misery!  Oh  misery! 

Oh  woe  is  me!    Oh  misery!" 

and  compare  this  with  the  language  of  ordinary  men,  or 
with  that  which  I  can  conceive  at  all  likely  to  proceed,  in 
real  life,  from  such  a  narrator  as  is  supposed  in  the 
note  to  the  poem, — compare  it  either  in  the  succession  of 

"  From  "The  Last  of  the  Flock." 


COLERIDGE  126 

the  images  or  of  the  sentences, — I  am  reminded  of  the 
sublime  prayer  and  hymn  of  praise  which  Milton,  in 
opposition  to  an  established  liturgy,  presents  as  a  fair 
specimen  of  common  extemporary  devotion,  and  such  as 
we  might  expect  to  hear  from  every  self-inspired  minister 
of  a  conventicle  1  ^^  And  I  reflect  with  delight  how  little 
a  mere  theory,  though  of  his  own  workmanship,  inter- 
feres with  the  processes  of  genuine  imagination  in  a 
man  of  true  poetic  genius,  who  possesses,  as  Mr.  Words- 
worth, if  ever  man  did,  most  assuredly  does  possess,  "the 
vision  and  the  faculty  divine." 

One  point  then  alone  remains,  but  that  the  most  im- 
portant; its  examination  having  been,  indeed,  my  chief 
inducement  for  the  preceding  inquisition.  "There 
neither  is  nor  can  be  any  essential  difference  between  the 
language  of  prose  and  metrical  composition."  Such  is 
Mr.  Wordsworth's  assertion.  Now  prose  itself,  at  least 
in  all  argumentative  and  consecutive  works,  differs,  and 
ought  to  differ,  from  the  language  of  conversation;  even 
as  reading  ought  to  differ  from  talking.^^  Unless,  there- 
fore, the  difference  denied  be  that  of  the  mere  words,  as 
materials  common  to  all  styles  of  writing,  and  not  of 
the  style  itself  in  the  universally  admitted  sense  of  the 
term,  it  might  be  naturally  presumed  that  there  must 
exist  a  still  greater  between  the  ordonnance  of  poetic  com- 
position and  that  of  prose,  than  is  expected  to  distinguish 
prose  from  ordinary  conversation.^*  .... 


"  The  reference  is  uncertain ;  Coleridge  may  have  had   in   mind 

the  prayer  which  Milton  introduced  iato  the  fourth  section  of  his 

.Animadversions  upon  the  RcmonatrvMfa  Defense  against  Hmrctym- 

nuus,    the    second    section    having    contained    a    defence     of    non- 

liturgieal  worship. 

"  It  is  no  less  an  error  in  teachers  than  a  torment  to  the  poor 
children,  to  inforcc  the  necessity  of  reading  as  they  would  talk. 
In  order  to  cure  them  of  singing,  as  it  is  called,  that  is.  of  too 
great  a  difference,  the  child  is  made  to  repeat  the  words  with  his 
eyes  from  off  the  book  ;  and  then,  indeed,  his  tones  resemble  talk- 
ing, as  far  as  his  fears,  tears,  and  trembling  will  permit.  But  as 
soon  as  his  eye  is  again  directed  to  the  printed  page,  the  spell  be- 
gins anew  ;  for  an  instinctive  sense  tells  the  child's  feelings  that 
to  utter  its  own  momentary  thoughts,  and  to  recite  the  written 
thoughts  of  another,  a  far  wiser  then  himself,  are  two  widely  dif- 
ferent things ;  and  as  the  two  acts  are  accompanied  with  widely 
different  feelings,  so  must  they  justify  different  modes  of  enuncia- 
tion.    [Coleridge's  note.] 

"  In  the  omitted  passage  Coleridge  elaborately  discusses  the 
term  "essentially  different." 


126  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

The  question  is  not,  whether  there  may  not  occur  in 
prose  an  order  of  words  which  would  be  equally  proper 
in  a  poem,  nor  whether  there  are  not  beautiful  lines  and 
sentences  of  frequent  occurrence  in  good  poems,  which 
would  be  equally  becoming  as  well  as  beautiful  in  good 
prose;  for  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  has  ever  been 
either  denied  or  doubted  by  any  one.  The  true  question 
must  be,  whether  there  are  not  modes  of  expression,  a 
construction,  and  an  order  of  sentences,  which  are  in 
their  fit  and  natural  place  in  a  serious  prose  composition, 
but  would  be  disproportionate  and  heterogeneous  in 
metrical  poetry;  and,  vice  versa,  whether  in  the  language 
of  a  serious  poem  there  may  not  be  an  arrangement  both 
of  words  and  sentences,  and  a  use  and  selection  of  (what 
are  called)  figures  of  speech,  both  as  to  their  kind,  their 
frequency,  and  their  occasions,  which  on  a  subject  of  equal 
weight  would  be  vicious  and  alien  in  correct  and  manly 
prose.  I  contend  that  in  both  cases  this  unfitness  of  each 
for  the  place  of  the  other  frequently  will  and  ought  to 
exist. 

And  first  from  the  origin  of  meter.  This  I  would  trace 
to  the  balance  in  the  mind  effected  by  that  spontaneous 
effort  which  strives  to  hold  in  check  the  workings  of  pas- 
sion. It  might  be  easily  explained  likewise  in  what  man- 
ner this  salutary  antagonism  is  assisted  by  the  very  state 
which  it  counteracts;  and  how  this  balance  of  antagonists 
became  organized  into  meter  (in  the  usual  acceptation 
of  that  term)  by  a  supervening  act  of  the  will  and  judg- 
ment, consciously  and  for  the  foreseen  purpose  of  pleasure. 
Assuming  these  principles,  as  the  data  of  our  argument, 
we  deduce  from  them  two  legitimate  conditions,  which 
the  critic  is  entitled  to  expect  in  every  metrical  work. 
First,  that,  as  the  elements  of  meter  owe  their  existence 
to  a  state  of  increased  excitement,  so  the  meter  itself 
should  be  accompanied  by  the  natural  language  of  ex- 
citement. Secondly,  that  as  these  elements  are  formed 
into  meter  artificially,  by  a  voluntary  act,  with  the  design 
and  for  the  purpose  of  blending  delight  with  emotion,  so 
the  traces  of  present  volition  should  throiighout  the 
metrical  language  be  proportionately  discernible.  Now 
these  two  conditions  must  be  reconciled  and  co-present. 
There  must  be  not  only  a  partnership,  but  a  \inion;  an 


COLERIDGE  127 

interpenetration  of  passion  and  of  will,  of  spontaneous 
impulse  and  of  voluntary  purpose.  Again,  this  union 
can  be  manifested  only  in  a  frequency  of  forms  and  figures 
of  speech  (originally  the  offspring  of  passion,  but  now 
the  adopted  children  of  power)  greater  than  would  be 
desired  or  endured,  where  the  emotion  is  not  voluntarily 
encouraged  and  kept  up  for  the  sake  of  that  pleasure 
which  such  emotion,  so  tempered  and  mastered  by  the 
will,  is  found  capable  of  communicating.  It  not  only 
dictates,  but  of  itself  tends  to  produce,  a  more  frequent 
employment  of  picturesque  and  vivifying  language  than 
would  be  natural  in  any  other  case,  in  which  there  did 
not  exist,  as  there  does  in  the  present,  a  previous  and 
well  understood,  though  tacit,  compact  between  the  poet 
and  his  reader,  that  the  latter  is  entitled  to  expect,  and 
the  former  bound  to  supply,  this  species  and  degree  of 
pleasurable  excitement.  We  may  in  some  measure  apply 
to  this  union  the  answer  of  Polixenes,  in  the  Wintef's 
TaXe^^  to  Perdita's  neglect  of  the  streaked  gilly-flowers, 
because  she  had  heard  it  said. 

There  is  an  art  which  in  their  piedness  shares 
With  great  creating  Nature. 

Pol.    Say  there  be; 
Yet  Nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean, 
But  Nature  makes  that  mean;  so,  even  that  art 
Which  you  say  adds  to  Nature  is  an  art 
That  Nature  makes.     You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 
A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock, 
And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  ruder  kind 
By  bud  of  nobler  race.     This  is  an  art 
Which  does  mend  Nature — change  it  rather;  but 
The  art  itself  is  Nature. 

Secondly,  I  argue  from  the  effects  of  meter.  As  far  as 
meter  acts  in  and  for  itself,  it  tends  to  increase  the 
vivacity  and  susceptibility  both  of  the  general  feelings 
and  of  the  attention.  This  effect  it  produces  by  the  con- 
tinued excitement  of  surprise,  and  by  the  quick  reciproca- 
tions of  curiosity  still  gratified  and  still  re-excited,  which 
are  too  slight  indeed  to  be  at  any  one  moment  objects 
of  distinct  consciousness,  yet  become  considerable  in  their 

«IV,  iv,  87^. 


128  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

aggregate  influence.  As  a  medicated  atmosphere,  or  as 
wine  during  animated  conversation,  they  act  powerfully, 
though  themselves  unnoticed.  Where,  therefore,  corre- 
spondent food  and  appropriate  matter  are  not  provided 
for  the  attention  and  feelings  thus  roused,  there  must 
needs  be  a  disappointment  felt,  like  that  of  leap- 
ing in  the  dark  from  the  last  step  of  a  staircase,  when 
we  had  prepared  our  muscles  for  a  leap  of  three  or  four. 
The  discussion  on  the  powers  of  meter  in  the  Preface 
is  highly  ingenious,  and  touches  at  all  points  on  truth. 
But  I  cannot  find  any  statement  of  its  powers  considered 
abstractly  and  separately.  On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Words- 
worth seems  always  to  estimate  meter  by  the  powers  which 
it  exerts  during  (and,  as  I  think,  in  consequence  of) 
its  combination  with  other  elements  of  poetry.  Thus  the 
previous  difficulty  is  left  unanswered,  what  the  elements 
are  with  which  it  must  be  combined  in  order  to  produce 
its  own  effects  to  any  pleasurable  purpose.  Double  and 
tri-syllable  rhymes,  indeed,  form  a  lower  species  of  wit, 
and,  attended  to  exclusively  for  their  own  sake,  may 
become  a  source  of  momentary  amusement, — as  in  poor 
Smart's  ^*  distich  to  the  Welsh  squire  who  had  promised 
him  a  hare: 

Tell  me,  thou  son  of  great  Cadwallader! 

Hast  sent  the  hare?  or  hast  thou  swallow'd  her? 

But  for  any  poetic  purposes,  meter  resembles  (if  the  apt- 
ness of  the  simile  may  excuse  its  meanness)  yeast,  worth- 
less or  disagreeable  by  itself,  but  giving  vivacity  and 
spirit  to  the  liquor  with  which  it  is  proportionately  com- 
bined. 

The  reference  to  the  "Children  in  the  Wood"  "  by  no 
means  satisfies  my  judgment.  We  all  willingly  throw 
ourselves  back  for  awhile  into  the  feelings  of  our  child- 
hood. This  ballad,  therefore,  we  read  under  such  recol- 
lections of  our  own  childish  feelings  as  would  equally 
endear  to  us  poems  which  Mr.  Wordsworth  himself  would 

"Christopher   Smart    (1722-1771),   a  poet   who   was  for  a   time 
insane. 
"  See  p.  23. 


COLERIDGE  129 

regard  as  faulty  in  the  opposite  extreme  of  gaudy  and 
technical  ornament.  Before  the  invention  of  printing,  and 
in  a  still  greater  d^ree  before  the  introduction  of  writ- 
ing, meter,  especially  alliterative  meter  (whether  allitera- 
tive at  the  beginning  of  the  words,  as  in  Piers  Plowman, 
or  at  the  end  as  in  rhymes),  possessed  an  independent 
value  as  assisting  the  recollection,  and  consequently  the 
preservation,  of  any  series  of  truths  or  incidents.  But  1 
am  not  convinced  by  the  collation  of  facts,  that  the 
"Children  in  the  Wood"  owes  either  its  preservation  or 
its  popularity  to  its  metrical  form.  Mr.  Marshall's  re- 
pository affords  a  number  of  tales  in  prose  inferior  in 
pathos  and  general  merit,  some  of  as  old  a  date,  and 
many  as  widely  popular.  Tom  Hickathrift,  Jack  the 
Oiani-Killer,  Goody  Two-Shoes,  and  Little  Red  Riding- 
Hood  are  formidable  rivals.  And  that  they  have  con- 
tinued in  prose  cannot  be  fairly  explained  by  the  assump- 
tion that  the  comparative  meanness  of  their  thoughts 
and  images  precluded  even  the  humblest  forms  of  meter. 
The  scene  of  Goody  Two-Shoes  in  the  church  is  perfectly 
susceptible  of  metrical  narration ;  and  among  the  Baiinara 
Bavtiaarinara^^  even  of  the  present  age  I  do  not  recol- 
lect a  more  astonishing  image  than  that  of  the  "whole 
rookery  that  flew  out  of  the  giant's  beard,"  scared  by  the 
tremendous  voice  with  which  this  monster  answered  the 
challenge  of  the  heroic  Tom  Hickathrift! 

If  from  these  we  turn  to  compositions  universally — 
and  independently  of  all  early  associations — beloved  and 
admired  would  the  Maria,  the  Monk,  or  the  Poor  Man's 
Ass  of  Sterne  ^^  be  read  with  more  delight,  or  have  a  better 
chance  of  immortality,  had  they  without  any  change  in 
the  diction  been  composed  in  rhyme,  than  in  their  present 
state?  If  I  am  not  grossly  mistaken,  the  general  reply 
would  be  in  the  negative.  Nay,  I  will  confess  that,  in 
Mr.  Wordsworth's  own  volumes,  the  "Anecdote  for 
Fathers,"  "Simon  Lee,"  "Alice  Fell,"  "The  Beggars,"  and 
"The  Sailor's  Mother,"  notwithstanding  the  beauties 
which  are  to  be  found  in  each  of  them  where  the  poet 
interposes  the  music  of  his  own  thoughts,  would  have 
been  more  delightful  to  me  in  prose,  told  and  managed, 

'*  "Most  wonderful  wonders." 

"•Sketches  in  Sterne's  Sentimental  Journey  (1768). 


130  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

as  by  Mr.  Wordsworth  they  would  have  been,  in  a  moral 
essay  or  pedestrian  tour. 

Meter  in  itself  is  simply  a  stimulant  of  the  attention, 
and  therefore  excites  the  question:  Why  is  the  attention 
to  be  stimulated?  Now  the  question  cannot  be  answered 
by  the  pleasure  of  the  meter  itself;  for  this  we  have  shown 
to  be  conditional,  and  dependent  on  the  appropriateness  of 
the  thoughts  and  expressions  to  which  the  metrical  form 
is  superadded.  Neither  can  I  conceive  any  other  answer 
that  can  be  rationally  given,  short  of  this:  I  write  in 
meter,  because  I  am  about  to  use  a  language  different  from 
that  of  prose.  Besides,  where  the  language  is  not  such, 
how  interesting  soever  the  reflections  are  that  are  capable 
of  being  drawn  by  a  philosophic  mind  from  the  thoughts 
or  incidents  of  the  poem,  the  meter  itself  must  often  be- 
come feeble.  Take  the  last  three  stanzas  of  "The  Sailor's 
Mother,"  for  instance.  If  I  could  for  a  moment  abstract 
from  the  effect  produced  on  the  author's  feelings,  as  a 
man,  by  the  incident  at  the  time  of  its  real  occurrence,  I 
would  dare  appeal  to  his  own  judgment  whether  in  the 
meter  itself  he  found  a  sufficient  reason  for  their  being 
written  metrically. 

And,  thus  continuing,  she  said: 

I  had  a  son,  who  many  a  day 

Sailed  on  the  seas;  but  he  is  dead; 

In  Denmark  he  was  cast  away: 

And  I  have  traveled  far  as  Hull,  to  see 

What  clothes  he  might  have  left,  or  other  property. 

The  bird  and  cage  they  both  were  his: 

'Twas  my  son's  bird;  and  neat  and  trim 

He  kept  it:  many  voyages 

The  singing-bird  hath  gone  with  him; 

When  last  he  sailed  he  left  the  bird  behind, 

As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  from  boding^  of  his  mind. 

He  to  a  fellow-lodger's  care 
Had  left  it,  to  be  watched  and  fed, 
Till  he  came  back  again;  and  there 
I  found  it  when  my  son  was  dead; 
And  now,  God  help  me  for  my  little  wit! 
I  trail  it  with  me,  sir!  he  took  so  much  delight  in  it. 


COLERIDGE  181 

If,  disproportioning  the  emphasis,  we  read  these  stanza* 
80  as  to  make  the  rhymes  perceptible,  even  tri-syllable 
rhymes  could  scarcely  produce  an  equal  sense  of  oddity 
and  strangeness  as  we  feel  here  in  finding  rhymes  at  all 
in  sentences  so  exclusively  colloquial.  I  would  further 
ask  whether,  but  for  that  visionary  state  into  which  the 
figure  of  the  woman  and  the  susceptibility  of  his  own 
genius  had  placed  the  poet's  imagination  (a  state  which 
spreads  its  influence  and  coloring  over  all  that  exists  with 
the  exciting  cause,  and  in  which 

The  simplest  and  the  most  familiar  things 

Gain  a  strange  power  of  spreading  awe  around  them,)  *" 

— I  would  ask  the  poet  whether  he  would  not  have  felt  an 
abrupt  downfall  in  these  verses  from  the  preceding  stanza  r 

The  ancient  spirit  is  not  dead; 

Old  times,  thought  I,  are  breathing  there; 

Proud  was  I  that  my  country  bred 

Such  strength,  a  dignity  so  fair; 

She  begged  an  alms,  like  one  in  poor  estate; 

I  looked  at  her  again,  nor  did  my  pride  abate. 

It  must  not  be  omitted,  and  is  besides  worthy  of  notice^ 
that  those  stanzas  furnish  the  only  fair  instance  that  I 
have  been  able  to  discover  in  all  Mr.  Wordsworth's  writ- 
ings of  an  actual  adoption,  or  true  imitation,  of  the  real 
and  very  language  of  low  and  rustic  life,  freed  from  pro- 
vincialisms. 

Thirdly,  I  deduce  the  position  from  all  the  causes  else- 
where assigned  which  render  meter  the  proper  form  of 
poetry,  and  poetry  imperfect  and  defective  without  meter. 
Meter,  therefore,  having  been  connected  with  poetry  most 
often  and  by  a  peculiar  fitness,  whatever  else  is  combined 
with  meter  must,  though  it  be  not  itself  essentially  poetic, 
have  nevertheless  some  property  in  common  with  poetry, 
as  an  intermedium  of  affinity,  a  sort  (if  I  may  dare  bor- 
row a  well-worn  phrase  from  technical  chemistry)  of 
mordant  between  it  and  the  super-added  meter.  Now 
poetry,  Mr.  Wordsworth  truly  affirms,  does  always  imply 

**  Altered  from  the  description  of  Night-Mair  in  the  Remorte^ 
IColerldge's  note.] 


132  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

passion;  which  word  must  be  here  understood  in  its  gen- 
eral sense,  as  an  excited  state  of  the  feelings  and  faculties. 
And  as  every  passion  has  its  proper  pulse,  so  will  it  like- 
wise have  its  characteristic  modes  of  expression.  But 
where  there  exists  that  degree  of  genius  and  talent  which 
entitles  a  writer  to  aim  at  the  honors  of  a  poet,  the  very 
act  of  poetic  composition  itself  is,  and  is  allowed  to 
imply  and  produce,  an  unusual  state  of  excitement,  which 
of  course  justifies  and  demands  a  correspondent  differ- 
ence of  language,  as  truly,  though  not  perhaps  in  as 
marked  a  degree,  as  the  excitement  of  love,  fear,  rage,  or 
jealousy.  The  vividness  of  the  descriptions  or  declama- 
tions in  Donne  or  Dryden  is  as  much  and  as  often  derived 
from  the  force  and  fervor  of  the  describer,  as  from  the 
reflections,  forms,  or  incidents  which  constitute  their  sub- 
ject and  materials.  The  wheels  take  fire  from  the  mere 
rapidity  of  their  motion.  To  what  extent,  and  under 
what  modifications,  this  may  be  admitted  to  act,  I  shall 
attempt  to  define  in  an  after  remark  on  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
reply  to  this  objection,  or  rather  on  his  objection  to  this 
reply,  as  already  anticipated  in  his  preface. 

Fourthly,  and  as  intimately  connected  wtih  this,  if 
not  the  same  argument  in  a  more  general  form,  I  adduce 
the  high  spiritual  instinct  of  the  human  being  impelling 
us  to  seek  unity  by  harmonious  adjustment,  and  thus 
establishing  the  principle  that  all  the  parts  of  an  or- 
ganized whole  must  be  assimilated  to  the  more  important 
and  essential  parts.  This  and  the  preceding  arguments 
may  be  strengthened  by  the  reflection  that  the  composition 
of  a  poem  is  among  the  imitative  arts,  and  that  imitation, 
as  opposed  to  copying,  consists  either  in  the  interfusion 
of  the  same  throughout  the  radically  different,  or  of  the 
different  throughout  a  base  radically  the  same. 

Lastly,  I  appeal  to  the  practice  of  the  best  poets,  of  all 
countries  and  in  all  ages,  as  authorizing  the  opinion 
(deduced  from  all  the  foregoing)  that,  in  every  import 
of  the  word  essential  which  would  not  here  involve  a 
mere  truism,  there  may  be,  is,  and  ought  to  be  an  essen- 
tial difference  between  the  language  of  prose  and  of 
metrical  composition.  .  .  . 


COLERIDGE  188 

SHAKESPEARE 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

[Coleridge  gave  courses  of  lectures  on  Shakespeare  and 
other  poets  in  1808,  1810-13,  and  1818,  for  which  he  accumu- 
lated manuscript  notes  which  Were  published  in  his  Literary 
Remains,  1837-39.  The  notes  represented  in  the  following 
selections  appear  to  be  associated  with  the  lectures  of  1818. 
The  German  critic  Schlegel  had  published  his  famous  lectures 
on  Dramatic  Art  in  1809,  and  many  passages  in  these  were 
observed  to  be  strikingly  like  passages  in  the  later  lectures 
of  Coleridge;  the  latter  admitted  the  resemblance,  but  main- 
tained that  the  same  ideas  had  been  set  forth  in  his  early 
lectures,  before  he  could  have  seen  Schlegel's.  His  son  and 
editor  wrote:  "I  think  that  my  father  .  .  .  could  hardly 
have  been  aware  how  many  of  the  German  critic's  sentences  he 
had  repeated  in  these  later  lectures,  how  many  of  his  illustra- 
tions had  intertwined  themselves  with  his  own  thoughts,  .  .  . 
by  the  time  they  were  to  be  delivered  in  1818."  See  the  foot- 
notes for  the  more  important  of  the  Schlegel  parallels.] 

Shakespeare's  judgment  equal  to  his  genius 

Shakespeare  appears,  from  his  Venus  and  Adonis  and 
Rape  of  Lucrece  alone,  apart  from  all  his  great  works,  to 
have  possessed  all  the  conditions  of  the  true  poet.  Let  me 
now  proceed  to  destroy,  as  far  as  may  be  in  my  power, 
the  popular  notion  that  he  was  a  great  dramatist  by  mere 
instinct,  that  he  grew  immortal  in  his  own  despite,  and 
sank  below  men  of  second-  or  third-rate  power  when  he 
attempted  aught  beside  the  drama — even  as  bees  construct 
thieir  cells  and  manufacture  their  honey  to  admirable 
perfection,  but  would  in  vain  attempt  to  build  a  nest. 
Now  this  mode  of  reconciling  a  compelled  sense  of  in- 
feriority with  a  feeling  of  pride  began  in  a  few  pedants, 
who,  having  read  that  Sophocles  was  the  great  model  of 
tragedy,  and  Aristotle  the  infallible  dictator  of  its  rules, 
and  finding  that  the  Lear,  Hamlet,  Othello,  and  other 
masterpieces  were  neither  in  imitation  of  Sophocles  nor 
in  obedience  to  Aristotle,  and  not  having  (with  one  or 
tv70  exceptions)  the  courage  to  affirm  that  the  delight 
"which  their  country  received  from  generation  to  genera- 


134  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

tion,  in  defiance  of  the  alterations  of  circumstances  and 
habits,  was  wholly  groundless,  took  upon  them,  as  a  happy 
medium  and  refuge,  to  talk  of  Shakespeare  as  a  sort  of 
beautiful  lustus  naturee,  a  delightful  monster, — wild,  in- 
deed, and  without  taste  or  judgment,  but,  like  the  inspired 
idiots  so  much  venerated  in  the  East,  uttering,  amid  the 
strangest  follies,  the  sublimest  truths.  In  nine  places  out 
of  ten  in  which  I  find  his  awful  name  mentioned,  it  is 
with  some  epithet  of  "wild,"  "irregular,"  "pure  child  of 
nature,"  etc.  If  all  this  be  true,  we  must  submit  to  it; 
though  to  a  thinking  mind  it  cannot  but  be  painful  to 
find  any  excellence,  merely  human,  thrown  out  of  all 
human  analogy,  and  thereby  leaving  us  neither  rules 
for  imitation,  nor  motives  to  imitate;  but  if  false,  it  is 
a  dangerous  falsehood,  for  it  affords  a  refuge  to  secret 
self-conceit, — enables  a  vain  man  at  once  to  escape  his 
reader's  indignation  by  general  swollen  panegyrics,  and 
merely  by  his  ipse  dixit  to  treat  as  contemptible  what  he 
has  not  intellect  enough  to  comprehend,  or  soul  to  feel, 
without  assigning  any  reason,  or  referring  his  opinion  to 
any  demonstrative  principle;  thus  leaving  Shakespeare  as 
a  sort  of  Grand  Llama,  adored  indeed,  and  his  very  excre- 
ments prized  as  relics,  but  with  no  authority  or  real 
influence.  I  grieve  that  every  late  voluminous  edition  of 
his  works  would  enable  me  to  substantiate  the  present 
charge  with  a  variety  of  facts,  one  tenth  of  which  would 
of  themselves  exhaust  the  time  allotted  to  me.  Every  critic 
who  has  or  has  not  made  a  collection  of  black-letter 
books — in  itself  a  useful  and  respectable  amusement — 
puts  on  the  seven-league  boots  of  self-opinion,  and  strides 
at  once  from  an  illustrator  into  a  supreme  judge,  and, 
blind  and  deaf,  fills  his  three-ounce  phial  at  the  waters  of 
Niagara,  and  determines  positively  the  greatness  of  the 
cataract  to  be  neither  more  nor  less  than  his  three-ounce 
phial  has  been  able  to  receive. 

I  think  this  a  very  serious  subject.  It  is  my  earnest 
desire — my  passionate  endeavor — to  enforce,  at  various 
times  and  by  various  arguments  and  instances,  the  close 
and  reciprocal  connection  of  just  taste  with  pure  morality. 
Without  that  acquaintance  with  the  heart  of  man,  or 
that  docility  and  childlike  gladness  to  be  made  acquainted 
with  it  which  those  only  can  have  who  dare  look  at  their 


COLERIDGE  186 

own  hearts — and  that  with  a  steadiness  which  religion 
only  has  the  power  of  reconciling  with  sincere  humility, — 
without  this,  and  the  modesty  produced  by  it,  I  am  deeply 
convinced  that  no  man,  however  wide  his  erudition,  how- 
ever patient  his  antiquarian  researches,  can  possibly  un- 
derstand, or  be  worthy  of  understanding,  the  writings  of 
Shakespeare. 

Assuredly  that  criticism  of  Shakespeare  will  alone  be 
genial  which  is  reverential.  The  Englishman  who  with- 
out reverence — a  proud  and  affectionate  reverence — can 
utter  the  name  of  William  Shakespeare,  stands  disquali- 
fied for  the  office  of  critic.  He  wants  one  at  least  of  the 
very  senses  the  language  of  which  he  is  to  employ,  and 
will  discourse  at  best  but  as  a  blind  man,  while  the  whole 
harmonious  creation  of  light  and  shade,  with  all  its  subtle 
interchange  of  deepening  and  dissolving  colors,  rises  in 
silence  to  the  silent  fiat  of  the  uprising  Apollo.  However 
inferior  in  ability  I  may  be  to  some  who  have  followed 
me,  I  own  I  am  proud  that  I  was  the  first  in  time  who 
publicly  demonstrated,  to  the  full  extent  of  the  position, 
that  the  supposed  irregularity  and  extravagances  of 
Shakespeare  were  the  mere  dreams  of  a  pedantry  that 
arraigned  the  eagle  because  it  had  not  the  dimensions  of 
the  swan.  In  all  the  successive  courses  of  lectures  de- 
livered by  me,  since  my  first  attempt  at  the  Royal  Institu- 
tion, it  has  been,  and  it  still  remains,  my  object  to  prove 
that,  in  all  points,  from  the  most  important  to  the  most 
minute,  the  judgment  of  Shakespeare  is  commensurate 
with  his  genius, — nay,  that  his  genius  reveals  itself  in 
his  judgment  as  in  its  most  exalted  form.  And  the  more 
gladly  do  I  recur  to  this  subject  from  the  clear  convic- 
tion that  to  judge  aright,  and  with  distinct  consciousness 
of  the  grounds  of  our  judgment,  concerning  the  works  of 
Shakespeare,  implies  the  power  and  the  means  of  judging 
rightly  of  all  other  works  of  intellect,  those  of  abstract 
science  alone  excepted. 

It  is  a  painful  truth  that  not  only  individuals,  but 
even  whole  nations,  are  oftimes  so  enslaved  to  the  habits 
of  their  education  and  immediate  circumstances,  as  not 
to  judge  disinterestedly  even  on  those  subjects  the  very 
pleasure  arising  from  which  consists  in  its  disinterested- 
ness, namely,  on  subjects  of  taste  and  polite  literature. 


186  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Instead  of  deciding  concerning  their  own  modes  and  cus- 
toms by  any  rule  of  reason,  nothing  appears  rational,  be- 
coming, or  beautiful  to  them  but  what  coincides  with  the 
peculiarities  of  their  education.  In  this  narrow  circle, 
individuals  may  attain  to  exquisite  discrimination,  as 
the  French  critics  have  done  in  their  own  literature;  but 
a  true  critic  can  no  more  be  such  without  placing  him- 
self on  some  central  point,  from  which  he  may  command 
the  whole, — that  is,  some  general  rule  which,  founded 
in  reason  or  the  faculties  common  to  all  men,  must  there- 
fore apply  to  each — than  an  astronomer  can  explain  the 
movements  of  the  solar  system  without  taking  his  stand 
in  the  sun.  And  let  me  remark  that  this  will  not  tend  to 
produce  despotism,  but  on  the  contrary  true  tolerance, 
in  the  critic.  He  will,  indeed,  require,  as  the  spirit 
and  substance  of  a  work,  something  true  in  human  nature 
itself,  and  independent  of  all  circumstances;  but  in  the 
mode  of  applying  it  he  will  estimate  genius  and  judg- 
ment according  to  the  felicity  with  which  the  imperish- 
able soul  of  intellect  shall  have  adapted  itself  to  the  age, 
the  place,  and  the  existing  manners.  The  error  he  will 
expose  lies  in  reversing  this,  and  holding  up  the  mere 
circumstances  as  perpetual,  to  the  utter  neglect  of  the 
power  which  can  alone  animate  them.  For  art  cannot 
exist  without,  or  apart  from,  nature;  and  what  has  man 
of  his  own  to  give  to  his  fellow-man,  but  his  own  thoughts 
and  feelings,  and  his  observations  so  far  as  they  are  modi- 
fied by  his  own  thoughts  and  feelings? 

Let  me,  then,  once  more  submit  this  question  to  minds 
emancipated  alike  from  national,  or  party,  or  sectarian 
prejudice:  Are  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  works  of  rude 
uncultivated  genius,  in  which  the  splendor  of  the  parts 
compensates — if  aught  can  compensate — for  the  barbarous 
shapelessness  and  irregularity  of  the  whole?  Or  is  the 
form  equally  admirable  with  the  matter,  and  the  judgment 
of  the  great  poet  not  less  deserving  our  wonder  than  his 
genius  ?  Or,  again,  to  repeat  the  question  in  other  words : 
Is  Shakespeare  a  great  dramatic  poet  on  account  only  of 
those  beauties  and  excellences  which  he  possesses  in  com- 
mon with  the  ancients,  but  with  diminished  claims  to 
our  love  and  honor  to  the  full  extent  of  his  differences 
from    them?     Or    are   these   very    differences    additional 


COLERIDGE  137 

proofs  of  poetic  wisdom,  at  once  results  and  symbols  of 
living  power  as  contrasted  with  lifeless  mechanism — of 
free  and  rival  originality  as  contradistinguished  from 
servile  imitation  or  (more  accurately)  a  blind  copying 
of  effects  instead  of  a  true  imitation  of  the  essential  prin- 
ciples? Imagine  not  that  I  am  about  to  oppose  genius 
to  rules.  No!  the  comparative  value  of  these  rules  is  the 
very  cause  to  be  tried.  The  spirit  of  poetry,  like  all  other 
living  powers,  must  of  necessity  circumscribe  itself  by 
rules,  were  it  only  to  unite  power  with  beauty.  It  must 
embody  in  order  to  reveal  itself;  but  a  living  body  is  of 
necessity  an  organized  one;  and  what  is  organization  but 
the  connection  of  parts  in  and  for  a  whole,  so  that  each 
part  is  at  once  end  and  means?  This  is  no  discovery  of 
criticism;  it  is  a  necessity  of  the  human  mind;  and  all 
nations  have  felt  and  obeyed  it,  in  the  invention  of  meter 
and  measured  sounds  as  the  vehicle  and  involucrum  ^  of 
poetry,  itself  a  fellow-growth  from  the  same  life,  even 
as  the  bark  is  to  the  tree. 

No  work  of  true  genius  dares  want  its  appropriate  form,^ 
neither  indeed  is  there  any  danger  of  this.  As  it  must 
not,  so  genius  cannot,  be  lawless;  for  it  is  even  this  that 
constitutes  it  genius — the  power  of  acting  creatively  under 
laws  of  its  own  origination.  How  then  comes  it  that 
not  only  single  Zoili,^  but  whole  nations,  have  combined 
in  unhesitating  condemnation  of  our  great  dramatist,  as 
a  sort  of  African  nature,  rich  in  beautiful  monsters, — as 

*  Envelope. 

'  Compare  SchleRel :  "Works  of  genius  cannot  be  allowed  to  be 
without  form ;  but  of  this  there  is  no  dauKer.  That  we  may 
answer  this  objection  of  want  of  form,  we  must  first  come  to  an 
understanding  respectiuR  the  meaning  of  form,  which  most  critics, 
and  more  specially  those  who  insist  on  a  stiff  regularity,  under- 
stand merely  in  a  mechanical,  and  not  in  an  organlcal  sense. 
Form  is  mechanical  when,  through  external  influence,  it  is  com- 
municated to  any  material  merely  as  an  accidental  addition  with- 
out reference  to  its  quality ;  as,  for  example,  when  we  give  a 
particular  shape  to  a  soft  mass  that  it  may  retain  the  same  after 
its  induration.  Organlcal  form,  again,  is  innate  ;  it  unfolds  itself 
from  within,  and  acquires  its  determination  along  with  the  com- 
plete development  of  the  germ.  We  everywhere  discover  such 
forms  in  nature,  throughout  the  whole  range  of  living  powers,  from 
the  crystallization  of  salts  and  minerals  to  plants  and  flowers,  and 
from  them  to  the  human  figure.  In  the  fine  arts,  as  well  as  in 
the  province  of  nature,  the  highest  artist,  all  genuine  forms  are 
organlcal,  that  Is,  determined  by  the  quality  of  the  work."  (Lec- 
turca  on  Dramatic  Art.  xii ;  Black's  translation.) 

"Critics   (from  Zoilus,  an  ancient  critic  of  Homer). 


188  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

a  wild  heath  where  islands  of  fertility  look  the  greener 
from  the  surrounding  waste, — where  the  loveliest  plants 
now  shine  out  among  unsightly  weeds,  and  now  are 
choked  by  their  parasitic  growth,  so  intertwined  that  we 
cannot  disentangle  the  weed  without  snapping  the  flower? 
In  this  statement  I  had  no  reference  to  the  vulgar  abuse 
of  Voltaire,*  save  as  far  as  his  charges  are  coincident 
with  the  decisions  of  Shakespeare's  own  commentators 
and  (so  they  would  tell  you)  almost  idolatrous  admirers. 
The  true  ground  of  the  mistake  lies  in  the  confounding 
mechanical  regularity  with  organic  form.  The  form  is 
mechanic,  when  on  any  given  material  we  impress  a  pre- 
determined form,  not  necessarily  arising  out  of  the  prop- 
erties of  the  material, — as  when  to  a  mass  of  wet  clay 
we  give  whatever  shape  we  wish  it  to  retain  when  hard- 
ened. The  organic  form,  on  the  other  hand,  is  innate; 
it  shapes,  as  it  develops  itself  from  within,  and  the  ful- 
ness of  its  development  is  one  and  the  same  with  the  per- 
fection of  its  outward  form.  Such  as  the  life  is,  such 
is  the  form.  Nature,  the  prime  genial  artist,  inexhaust- 
ible in  diverse  powers,  is  equally  inexhaustible  in  forms; 
each  exterior  is  the  physiognomy  of  the  being  within, — 
its  true  image,  reflected  and  thrown  out  from  the  con- 
cave mirror;  and  even  such  is  the  appropriate  excellence 
of  her  chosen  poet,  of  our  own  Shakespeare, — himself  a 
nature  humanized,  a  genial  understanding  directing  self- 
consciously a  power  and  an  implicit  wisdom  deeper  even 
than  our  consciousness. 

I  greatly  dislike  "beauties"  and  selections  in  general; 
but  as  proof  positive  of  his  unrivalled  excellence,  I  should 
like  to  try  Shakespeare  by  this  criterion.  Make  out  your 
amplest  catalogue  of  all  the  human  faculties,  as  reason 
or  the  moral  law,  the  will,  the  feeling  of  the  coincidence 
of  the  two  (a  feeling  sui  generis  et  demonstratio  demon- 
strationum)  called  the  conscience,  the  understanding  or 
prudence,  wit,  fancy,  imagination,  judgment,  and  then 
of  the  objects  on  which  these  are  to  be  employed,  as  the 
beauties,  the  terrors,  and  the  seeming  caprices  of  nature, 
the  realities  and  the  capabilities — that  is,  the  actual  and 
the  ideal — of  the  human  mind,  conceived  as  an  individual 

*  For  Voltaire's  attacks  on  Shakespeare,  see  the  account  by  T.  R. 
Lounsbury,  Shakespeare  and  Voltaire,  1902. 


COLEKIDGE  189 

or  as  a  social  being,  as  in  innocence  or  in  guilt,  in  a  play- 
paradise  or  in  a  war-field  of  temptation; — and  then  com- 
pare with  Shakespeare  under  each  of  these  heads  all  or 
any  of  the  writers  in  prose  and  verse  that  have  ever  lived  I 
Who,  that  is  competent  to  judge,  doubts  the  result?  And 
ask  your  own  hearts — ask  your  own  common  sense — to 
conceive  the  possibility  of  this  man  being — I  say  not  the 
"drunken  savage"  "^  of  that  wretched  sciolist  whom  French- 
men, to  their  shame,  have  honored  before  their  elder  and 
better  worthies — but  the  anomalous,  the  wild,  the  irregu- 
lar, genius  of  our  daily  criticism !  What !  are  we  to  have 
miracles  in  sport?  Or,  I  speak  reverently,  does  God 
choose  idiots  by  whom  to  convey  divine  truths  to  man? 

THE   CHARACTERISTICS   OF    SHAKESPEARE'S   DRAMAS 

Poetry  in  essence  is  as  familiar  to  barbarous  as  to 
civilized  nations.  The  Laplander  and  the  savage  Indian 
are  cheered  by  it  as  well  as  the  inhabitants  of  London  and 
Paris;  its  spirit  takes  up  and  incorporates  surrounding 
materials,  as  a  plant  clothes  itself  with  soil  and  climate, 
whilst  it  exhibits  the  working  of  a  vital  principle  within 
independent  of  all  accidental  circumstances.  And  to 
judge  with  fairness  of  an  author's  works,  we  ought  to 
distinguish  what  is  inward  and  essential  from  what  is 
outward  and  circumstantial.  It  is  essential  to  poetry 
that  it  be  simple,  and  appeal  to  the  elements  and  primary 
laws  of  our  nature;  that  it  be  sensuous,  and  by  its 
imagery  elicit  truth  at  a  flash;  that  it  be  impassioned, 
and  be  able  to  move  our  feelings  and  awaken  our  affec- 
tions. In  comparing  different  poets  with  each  other,  we 
should  inquire  which  have  brought  into  the  fullest  play 
our  imagination  and  our  reason,  or  have  created  the 
greatest  excitement  and  produced  the  completest  harmony. 
If  we  consider  great  exquisiteness  of  language  and  sweet- 
ness of  meter  alone,  it  is  impossible  to  deny  to  Pope  the 
character  of  a  delightful  writer;  but  whether  he  be  a  poet 
must  depend  upon  our  definition  of  the  word ;  and,  doubt- 
less, if  everything  that  pleases  be  poetry,  Pope's  satires 

» Of  Hamlet  Voltaire  wrote,  In  his  Preface  to  Mirope,  "One 
would  suppose  this  work  to  be  the  fruit  of  the  ima^nation  of  a 
drunken  savage." 


140  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

and  epistles  must  be  poetry.  This  I  must  say,  that  poetry, 
as  distinguished  from  other  modes  of  composition,  does 
not  rest  in  meter,  and  that  it  is  not  poetry  if  it  makes 
no  appeal  to  our  passions  or  our  imagination.  One  char- 
acter belongs  to  all  true  poets,  that  they  write  from  a 
principle  within,  not  originating  in  anything  without; 
and  that  the  true  poet's  work  in  its  form,  its  shapings, 
and  its  modifications,  is  distinguished  from  all  other 
works  that  assume  to  belong  to  the  class  of  poetry,  as 
a  natural  from  an  artificial  flower,  or  as  the  mimic  garden 
of  a  child  from  an  enamelled  meadow.  In  the  former  the 
flowers  are  broken  from  their  stems  and  stuck  into  the 
ground;  they  are  beautiful  to  the  eye  and  fragrant  to  the 
sense,  but  their  colors  soon  fade,  and  their  odor  is  tran- 
sient as  the  smile  of  the  planter;  while  the  meadow  may 
be  visited  again  and  again  with  renewed  delight ;  its 
beauty  is  innate  in  the  soil,  and  its  bloom  is  of  the 
freshness  of  nature.^ 

The  next  ground  of  critical  judgment,  and  point  of 
comparison,  will  be  as  to  how  far  a  given  poet  has  been 
influenced  by  accidental  circumstances.  As  a  living  poet 
must  surely  write,  not  for  the  ages  past,  but  for  that  in 
which  he  lives,  and  those  which  are  to  follow,  it  is,  on 
the  one  hand,  natural  that  he  should  not  violate,  and 
on  the  other,  necessary  that  he  should  not  depend  on, 
the  mere  manners  and  modes  of  his  day.  See  how  little 
does  Shakespeare  leave  us  to  regret  that  he  was  bom  in 
his  particular  age!  The  great  era  in  modem  times  was 
what  is  called  the  Restoration  of  Letters;  the  ages  pre- 
ceding it  are  called  the  dark  ages;  but  it  would  be  more 
wise,  perhaps,  to  call  them  the  ages  in  which  we  were 
in  the  dark.    It  is  usually  overlooked  that  the  supposed 

•  Compare  Scblegel :  "Many  productions  which  appear  at  first 
sight  dazzling  phenomena  in  the  province  of  the  fine  arts,  and 
which  as  a  whole  have  been  honored  with  the  appellation  of 
works  of  a  golden  age,  resemble  the  mimic  gardens  of  children  : 
impatient  to  witness  the  work  of  their  hands,  they  break  off  here 
and  there  branches  and  flowers,  and  plant  them  in  the  earth ; 
everything  at  first  assumes  a  noble  appearance ;  the  childish 
gardener  struts  proudly  up  and  down  among  his  elegant  beds,  till 
the  rootless  plants  begin  to  droop,  and  hang  down  their  withered 
leaves  and  flowers,  and  nothing  soon  remains  but  the  bare  twigs ; 
while  the  dark  forest,  on  which  no  art  or  care  was  ever  bestowed, 
and  which  towered  up  towards  heaven  long  before  human  re- 
membrance, bears  every  blast  unshaken,  and  fills  the  solitary  be- 
holder with  religious  awe."     (Lecture  i.) 


COLERIDGE  141 

dark  period  was  not  universal,  but  partial  and  successive, 
or  alternate;  that  the  dark  age  of  England  was  not  the 
dark  age  of  Italy,  but  that  one  country  was  in  its  light 
and  vigor  whilst  another  was  in  its  gloom  and  bondage. 
But  no  sooner  had  the  Reformation  sounded  through  Eu- 
rope like  the  blast  of  an  archangel's  trumpet,  than  from 
king  to  peasant  there  arose  an  enthusiasm  for  knowledge; 
the  discovery  of  a  manuscript  became  the  subject  of  an 
embassy;  Erasmus  read  by  moonlight,  because  he  could 
not  aflFord  a  torch,  and  begged  a  penny,  not  for  the  love 
of  charity,  but  for  the  love  of  learning.  The  three  great 
points  of  attention  were  religion,  morals,  and  taste;  men 
of  genius  as  well  as  men  of  learning,  who  in  this  age 
need  to  be  so  widely  distinguished,  then  alike  became 
copyists  of  the  ancients;  and  this,  indeed,  was  the  only 
way  by  which  the  taste  of  mankind  could  be  improved, 
or  their  understandings  informed.  Whilst  Dante  imagined 
himself  a  humble  follower  of  Virgil,  and  Ariosto  of 
Homer,  they  were  both  unconscious  of  that  greater  power 
Working  within  them,  which  in  many  points  carried  them 
beyond  their  supposed  originals.  All  great  discoveries 
bear  the  stamp  of  the  age  in  which  they  are  made;  hence 
we  perceive  the  effects  of  the  purer  religion  of  the  mod- 
ems, visible  for  the  most  part  in  their  lives;  and  in 
reading  their  works  we  should  not  content  ourselves  with 
the  mere  narratives  of  events  long  passed,  but  should  learn 
to  apply  their  maxims  and  conduct  to  ourselves. 

Having  intimated  that  times  and  manners  lend  their 
form  and  pressure  to  genius,  let  me  once  more  draw  a 
slight  parallel  between  the  ancient  and  modern  stage,  the 
stages  of  Greece  and  of  England.  The  Greeks  were  poly- 
theists ;  their  religion  was  local ;  almost  the  only  object  of 
all  their  knowledge,  art,  and  taste  was  their  gods;  and 
accordingly  their  productions  were,  if  the  expression  may 
be  allowed,  statuesque,  whilst  those  of  the  moderns  are 
picturesque.  The  Greeks  reared  a  structure  which,  in 
its  parts  and  as  a  whole,  filled  the  mind  with  the  calm 
and  elevated  impression  of  perfect  beauty  and  symmetrical 
proportion.  The  moderns  also  produced  a  whole,  a  more 
striking  whole;  but  it  was  by  blending  materials  and 
fusing  the  parts  together.  And  as  the  Pantheon  is  to 
York  Minster  or   Westminster  Abbey,   so   is   Sophocles 


142  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

compared  with  Shakespeare;'^  in  the  one  a  completeness, 
a  satisfaction,  an  excellence,  on  which  the  mind  rests  with 
complacency;  in  the  other  a  multitude  of  interlaced  mate- 
rials, great  and  little,  magnificent  and  mean,  accompanied, 
indeed,  with  the  sense  of  a  falling  short  of  perfection, 
and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  so  promising  of  our  social  and 
individual  progression  that  we  would  not,  if  we  could, 
exchange  it  for  that  repose  of  the  mind  which  dwells  on 
the  forms  of  symmetry  in  the  acquiescent  admiration  of 
grace.  This  general  characteristic  of  the  ancient  and 
modern  drama  might  be  illustrated  by  a  parallel  of  the 
ancient  and  modern  music:  the  one  consisting  of  melody 
arising  from  a  succession  only  of  pleasing  sounds,  the 
modern  embracing  harmony  also,  the  result  of  combination 
and  the  effect  of  a  whole. 

I  have  said,  and  I  say  it  again,  that,  great  as  was  the 
genius  of  Shakespeare,  his  judgment  was  at  least  equal 
to  it.  Of  this  any  one  will  be  convinced  who  attentively 
considers  those  points  in  which  the  dramas  of  Greece 
and  England  differ,  from  the  dissimilitude  of  circum- 
stances by  which  each  was  modified  and  influenced.  The 
Greek  stage  had  its  origin  in  the  ceremonies  of  a  sacrifice, 
such  as  of  the  goat  to  Bacchus,  whom  we  most  erroneously 
regard  as  merely  the  jolly  god  of  wine;  for  among  the 
ancients  he  was  venerable  as  the  symbol  of  that  power 
which  acts  without  our  consciousness  in  the  vital  ener- 
gies of  nature — the  vinum  mundi — as  Apollo  was  that  of 
the  conscious  agency  of  our  intellectual  being.  The 
heroes  of  old,  under  the  influences  of  this  Bacchic  enthusi- 
asm, performed  more  than  human  actions;  hence  tales  of 
the  favorite  champions  soon  passed  into  dialogue.  On 
the  Greek  stage  the  chorus  was  always  before  the  audi- 
ence; the  curtain  was  never  dropped,  as  we  should  say; 
and  change  of  place  being  therefore,  in  general,  impos- 
sible,  the   absurd   notion   of   condemning    it    merely    as 

'  Compare  the  close  of  Pope's  Preface  to  his  edition  of  Shalce- 
speare :  "With  all  his  faults,  and  with  all  the  irregnlarity  of 
his  dramas,  one  may  look  upon  his  works,  in  comparison  of  those 
that  are  more  finished  and  regular,  as  upon  an  ancient  majestic 
piece  of  Gothic  architecture,  compared  with  a  neat  modern  build- 
ing." And  Schlegel :  "The  Pantheon  is  not  more  different  from 
Westminster  Abbey  or  the  church  of  St.  Stephen  at  Vienna,  than 
the  structure  of  a  tragedy  of  Sophocles  from  a  drama  of  Shake- 
speare."    (Lecture  1.) 


COLERIDGE  143 

improbable  in  itself  was  never  entertained  by  anyone.  If 
we  can  believe  ourselves  at  Thebes  in  one  act,  we  may 
believe  ourselves  at  Athens  in  the  next.^  If  a  story  lasts 
twenty-four  hours  or  twenty-four  years,  it  is  equally  im- 
probable. There  seems  to  be  no  just  boundary  but  what 
the  feelings  prescribe.  But  on  the  Greek  stage,  where  the 
same  persons  were  perpetually  before  the  audience,  great 
judgment  was  necessary  in  venturing  on  any  such  change. 
The  poets  never,  therefore,  attempted  to  impose  on  the 
senses  by  bringing  places  to  men,  but  they  did  bring  men 
to  places,  as  in  the  well-known  instance  in  The  Eumenides, 
where,  during  an  evident  retirement  of  the  chorus  from 
the  orchestra,  the  scene  is  changed  to  Athens,  and  Orestes 
is  first  introduced  in  the  temple  of  Minerva,  and  the 
chorus  of  Furies  come  in  afterwards  in  pursuit  of  him. 

In  the  Greek  drama  there  were  no  formal  divisions  into 
scenes  and  acts;  there  were  no  means,  therefore,  of  allow- 
ing for  the  necessary  lapse  of  time  between  one  part  of  the 
dialogue  and  another,  and  unity  of  time  in  a  strict  sense 
was,  of  course,  impossible.  To  overcome  that  difficulty  of 
accounting  for  time,  which  is  effected  on  the  modern  stage 
by  dropping  a  curtain,  the  judgment  and  great  genius 
of  the  ancients  supplied  music  and  measured  motion,  and 
with  the  lyric  ode  filled  up  the  vacuity.  In  the  story  of 
the  Agamemnon  of  ^schylus,  the  capture  of  Troy  is  sup- 
posed to  be  announced  by  a  fire  lighted  on  the  Asiatic 
shore,  and  the  transmission  of  the  signal  by  successive 
beacons  to  Mycense.  The  signal  is  first  seen  at  the  21st 
line,  but  the  herald  from  Troy  itself  enters  at  the  486th, 
and  Agamemnon  himself  at  the  783d  line.  But  the  prac- 
tical absurdity  of  this  was  not  felt  by  the  audience,  who, 
in  imagination,  stretched  minutes  into  hours,  while  they 
listened  to  the  lofty  narrative  odes  of  the  chorus  which 
almost  entirely  filled  up  the  interspace.  Another  fact 
deserves  attention  here:  namely,  that  regularly  on  the 
Greek  stage  a  drama,  or  acted  story,  consisted  in  reality 
of  three  dramas,  called  together  a  trilogy,  and  performed 
consecutively  in  the  course  of  one  day.     Now  you  may 

•Compare  Dr.  Johnson,  In  his  Preface  to  Shakespeare:  "He 
that  can  take  the  stage  at  one  time  for  the  palace  of  the  Ptole- 
mies, may  take  It  In  half  an  hour  for  the  promontory  of  Actlum. 
Delusion,    If  delusion   be   admitted,    has   no   certain    limitation." 


144  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

conceive  a  tragedy  of  Shakespeare's  as  a  trilogy  connected 
in  one  single  representation.  Divide  Lear  into  three 
parts,  and  each  would  be  a  play  with  the  ancients;  or 
take  the  three  -^schylean  dramas  of  Agamemnon,  and 
divide  them  into,  or  call  them,  as  many  acts,  and  they 
together  would  be  one  play.^  The  first  act  would  comprise 
the  usurpation  of  -^gisthus  and  the  murder  of  Agamem- 
non; the  second,  the  revenge  of  Orestes  and  the  murder 
of  his  mother;  and  the  third,  the  penance  and  absolution 
of  Orestes ; — occupying  a  period  of  twenty-two  years. 

The  stage  in  Shakespeare's  time  was  a  naked  room  with 
a  blanket  for  a  curtain,  but  he  made  it  a  field  for  mon- 
archs.  That  law  of  unity  which  has  its  foundations,  not 
in  the  factitious  necessity  of  custom,  but  in  nature  itself, 
the  unity  of  feeling,  is  everywhere  and  at  all  times  ob- 
served by  Shakespeare  in  his  plays.  Read  Romeo  and 
Juliet, — all  is  youth  and  spring;  youth  with  its  follies,  its 
virtues,  its  precipitancies;  spring  with  its  odors,  its 
flowers,  and  its  transiency;  it  is  one  and  the  same  feeling 
that  commences,  goes  through,  and  ends  the  play.  The 
old  men,  the  Capulets  and  the  Montagues,  are  not  com- 
mon old  men;  they  have  an  eagerness,  a  heartiness,  a 
vehemence,  the  effect  of  spring;  with  Romeo,  his  change 
of  passion,  his  sudden  marriage,  and  his  rash  death,  are 
all  the  effects  of  youth ;  whilst  in  Juliet  love  has  all  that 
is  tender  and  melancholy  in  the  nightingale,  all  that  is 
voluptuous  in  the  rose,  with  whatever  is  sweet  in  the 
freshness  of  spring;  but  it  ends  with  a  long  deep  sigh 
like  the  last  breeze  of  the  Italian  evening.^"  This  unity 
of  feeling  and  character  pervades  every  drama  of  Shakes- 
peare. 

It  seems  to  me  that  his  plays  are  distinguished  from 
those  of  all  other  dramatic  poets  by  the  following  char- 
acteristics : — 


•  Compare  Schlef^el :  "We  may  consider  the  three  pieces  [of 
the  iEschylean  trilogy  1,  which  were  connected  together  even  in 
the.  representation,  as  so  many  acts  of  one  great  and  entire  drama. 
I  mention  this  as  a  preliminary  Jiistiflcation  of  Shalcespeare  and 
other  modern  poets,  in  connecting  together  in  one  representation 
a  larger  circle  of  human   destinies."      (Lecture  iv.) 

'"  Compare  Schlegel :  "Whatever  is  most  intoxicating  In  the 
odor  of  a  southern  spring,  languishing  in  the  song  of  the  nightin- 
gale, or  voluptuous  on  the  first  opening  of  the  rose,  is  breathed 
Into    this    poem."     (Lecture    xli.) 


COLERIDGE  146 

1.  Expectation  in  preference  to  surprise.  It  is  like 
the  true  reading  of  the  passage,  "God  said.  Let  there  be 
light;  and  there  was  light," — not,  "there  was  light."  As 
the  feeling  with  which  we  startle  at  a  shooting  star  com- 
pared with  that  of  watching  the  sunrise  at  the  pre-estab- 
lished moment,  such  and  so  low  is  surprise  compared  with 
expectation. 

2.  Signal  adherence  to  the  great  law  of  nature,  that  all 
opposites  tend  to  attract  and  temper. each  other.  Passion 
in  Shakespeare  generally  displays  libertinism,  but  involves 
morality;  and  if  there  are  exceptions  to  this,  they  are — 
independently  of  their  intrinsic  value — all  of  them  indica- 
tive of  individual  character,  "and,  like  the  farewell  ad- 
monitions of  a  parent,  have  an  end  beyond  the  parental 
relation.  Thus  the  Countess's  beautiful  precepts  to 
Bertram,^*  by  elevating  her  character,  raise  that  of  Helena 
her  favorite,  and  soften  down  the  point  in  her  which 
Shakespeare  does  not  mean  us  not  to  see,  but  to  see  and 
to  forgive,  and  at  length  to  justify.  And  so  it  is  in 
Polonius,  who  is  the  personified  memory  of  wisdom  no 
longer  actually  possessed.  This  admirable  character  is 
always  misrepresented  on  the  stage.  Shakespeare  never 
intended  to  exhibit  him  as  a  buffoon;  for  although  it  was 
natural  that  Hamlet — a  young  man  of  fire  and  genius, 
detesting  formality,  and  disliking  Polonius  on  political 
grounds,  as  imagining  that  he  had  assisted  his  uncle  in 
his  usurpation — should  express  himself  satirically,  yet  this 
must  not  be  taken  as  exactly  the  poet's  conception  of  him. 
In  Polonius  a  certain  induration  of  character  had  arisen 
from  long  habits  of  business;  but  take  his  advice  to 
Laertes,  and  Ophelia's  reverence  for  his  memory,  and  we 
shall  see  that  he  was  meant  to  be  represented  as  a  states- 
man somewhat  past  his  faculties, — his  recollections  of  life 
all  full  of  wisdom,  and  showing  a  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  whilst  what  immediately  takes  place  before  him, 
and  escapes  from  him,  is  indicative  of  weakness.  But 
as  in  Homer  all  the  deities  are  in  armor,  even  Venus,  so 
in  Shakespeare  all  the  characters  are  strong.  Hence  real 
folly  and  dulness  are  made  by  him  the  vehicles  of  wis- 
dom.    There   is   no    difficulty   for   one   being   a   fool    to 

» All'a  Well,  I,  1,  70-79. 


146  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

imitate  a  fool;  but  to  be,  remain,  and  speak  like  a  wise 
man  and  a  great  wit,  and  yet  so  as  to  give  a  vivid  repre- 
sentation of  a  veritable  fool,  hie  labor,  hoc  opus  est.  A 
drunken  constable  is  not  uncommon,  nor  hard  to  draw; 
but  see  and  examine  what  goes  to  make  up  a  Dogberry. 

3.  Keeping  at  all  times  in  the  high  road  of  life.  Shakes- 
peare has  no  innocent  adulteries,  no  interesting  incests, 
no  virtuous  vice;  he  never  renders  that  amiable  which 
religion  and  reason  alike  teach  us  to  detest,  or  clothes 
impurity  in  the  garb  of  virtue,  like  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  the  Kotzebues  ^^  of  the  day.  Shakespeare's  fathers 
are  roused  by  ingratitude,  his  husbands  stung  by 
unfaithfulness;  in  him,  in  short,  the  affections  are 
wounded  in  those  points  in  which  all  may — nay,  must — 
feel.  Let  the  morality  of  Shakespeare  be  contrasted  with 
that  of  the  writers  of  his  own  or  the  succeeding  age,  or 
of  those  of  the  present  day,  who  boast  their  superiority 
in  this  respect.  No  one  can  dispute  that  the  result  of 
such  a  comparison  is  altogether  in  favor  of  Shakespeare; 
even  the  letters  of  women  of  high  rank  in  his  age  were 
often  coarser  than  his  writings.  If  he  occasionally  dis- 
gusts a  keen  sense  of  delicacy,  he  never  injures  the  mind; 
he  neither  excites  nor  flatters  passion,  in  order  to  degrade 
the  subject  of  it;  he  does  not  use  the  faulty  thing  for  a 
faulty  purpose,  nor  carries  on  warfare  against  virtue  by 
causing  wickedness  to  appear  as  no  wickedness,  through 
the  medium  of  a  morbid  sympathy  with  the  unfortunate. 
In  Shakespeare  vice  never  walks  as  in  twilight;  nothing 
is  purposely  out  of  place;  he  inverts  not  the  order  of 
nature  and  propriety, — does  not  make  every  magistrate  a 
drunkard  or  glutton,  nor  every  poor  man  meek,  humane, 
and  temperate;  he  has  no  benevolent  butchers,  or  senti- 
mental rat-catchers. 

4.  Independence  of  the  dramatic  interest  on  the  plot. 
The  interest  in  the  plot  is  always  in  fact  on  account  of 
the  characters,  not  vice  versa,  as  in  almost  all  other 
writers;  the  plot  is  a  mere  canvas  and  no  more.  Hence 
arises  the  true  justification  of  the  same  strategem  being 
used  in  regard  to  Benedick  and  Beatrice,^^ — the  vanity  in 
each  being  alike.     Take  away  from  the  Much  Ado  about 

"  Kotzebue    was   a    sensational    German    dramatist    (1761-1819). 
^'Much  Ado.  II,  ill  and  III.  1. 


COLERIDGE  147 

Nothing  all  that  whicli  is  not  indispensable  to  the  plot, 
either  as  having  little  to  do  with  it,  or,  at  best,  like  Dog- 
berry and  his  comrades,  forced  into  the  service,  when 
any  other  less  ingeniously  absurd  watchmen  and  night- 
constables  would  have  answered  the  mere  necessities  of  the 
action, — take  away  Benedick,  Beatrice,  Dogberry,  and 
the  reaction  of  the  former  on  the  character  of  Hero, — 
and  what  will  remain?  In  other  writers  the  main  agent 
of  the  plot  is  always  the  prominent  character;  in  Shakes- 
peare it  is  so,  or  is  not  so,  as  the  character  is  in  itself 
calculated,  or  not  calculated,  to  form  the  plot.  Don  John 
is  the  mainspring  of  the  plot  of  this  play,  but  he  is  merely 
shown  and  then  withdrawn. 

5.  Independence  of  the  interest  on  the  story  as  the 
groundwork  of  the  plot.  Hence  Shakespeare  never  took 
the  trouble  of  inventing  stories.  It  was  enough  for  him 
to  select,  from  those  that  had  been  already  invented  or 
recorded,  such  as  had  one  or  other,  or  both,  of  two 
recommendations, — namely,  suitableness  to  his  particular 
purpose,  and  their  being  parts  of  popular  tradition, — 
names  of  which  we  had  often  heard,  and  of  their  fortunes, 
and  as  to  which  all  we  wanted  was,  to  see  the  man  him- 
self. So  it  is  just  the  man  himself,  the  Lear,  the  Shylock, 
the  Richard,  that  Shakespeare  makes  us  for  the  first  time 
acquainted  with.  Omit  the  first  scene  in  Lear,  and  yet 
everything  will  remain;  so  the  first  and  second  scenes  in 
The  Merchant  of  Venice.    Indeed  it  is  universally  true. 

6.  Interfusion  of  the  lyrical — that  which  in  its  very 
essence  is  poetic — not  only  with  the  dramatic,  as  in  the 
plays  of  Metastasio,^*  where  at  the  end  of  the  scene  comes 
the  aria  as  the  exit  speech  of  the  character,  but  also  in 
and  through  the  dramatic.  Songs  in  Shakespeare  are 
introduced  as  songs  only,  just  as  songs  are  in  real  life, 
beautifully  as  some  of  them  are  characteristic  of  the 
person  who  has  sung  or  called  for  them,  as  Desdemona's 
**Willow,"  and  Ophelia's  wild  snatches,  and  the  sweet 
carolings  in  As  You  Like  It.  But  the  whole  of  the  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  is  one  continued  specimen  of  the 
dramatized  lyrical.  And  observe  how  exquisitely  the 
dramatic  of  Hotspur — 

*«An  Italian  poet  (1698-1782). 


.148  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Marry,  and  I'm  glad  on't  with  all  my  heart; 
I'd  rather  be  a  kitten  and  cry  mew,  etc. — 

melts  away  into  the  lyric  of  Mortimer: — 

I  understand  thy  looks;  that  pretty  Welsh 

Which  thou  pour'st  down  from  these  swelling  heavens 

I  am  too  perfect  in,  etc. 

(/  Henry  IV,  Act  ill.  Scene  i.) 

7.  The  characters  of  the  dramatis  personce,  like  those 
in  real  life,  are  to  be  inferred  by  the  reader;  they  are 
not  told  to  him.  And  it  is  well  worth  remarking  that 
Shakespeare's  characters,  like  those  in  real  life,  are  very 
commonly  misunderstood,  and  almost  always  understood 
by  different  persons  in  different  ways.  The  causes  are 
the  same  in  either  case.  If  you  take  only  what  the  friends 
of  the  character  say,  you  may  be  deceived,  and  still  more 
so  if  that  which  his  enemies  say;  nay,  even  the  character 
himself  sees  himself  through  the  medium  of  his  char- 
acter, and  not  exactly  as  he  is.  Take  all  together,  not 
omitting  a  shrewd  hint  from  the  clown  or  the  fool,  and 
perhaps  your  impression  will  be  right;  and  you  may 
know  whether  you  have  in  fact  discovered  the  poet's  own 
idea,  by  all  the  speeches  receiving  light  from  it,  and  at- 
testing its  reality  by  reflecting  it. 

Lastly,  in  Shakespeare  the  heterogeneous  is  united,  as 
it  is  in  nature.  You  must  not  suppose  a  pressure  or 
passion  always  acting  on  or  in  the  character;  passion  in 
Shakespeare  is  that  by  which  the  individual  is  distin- 
guished from  others,  not  that  which  makes  a  different  kind 
of  him.  Shakespeare  followed  the  main  march  of  the 
human  affections.  He  entered  into  no  analysis  of  the 
passions  or  faiths  of  men,  but  assured  himself  that  such 
and  such  passions  and  faiths  were  grounded  in  our  com- 
mon nature,  and  not  in  the  mere  accidents  of  ignorance 
or  disease.  This  is  an  important  consideration,  and 
constitutes  our  Shakespeare  the  morning  star,  the  guide 
and  the  pioneer,  of  true  philosophy. 

HAMLET 

The  seeming  inconsistencies  in  the  conduct  and  char- 
acter of  Hamlet  have  long  exercised  the  conjectural  in- 
genuity of  critics;  and,  as  we  are  always  loth  to  suppose 


COLERIDGE  149 

that  the  cause  of  defective  apprehension  is  in  ourselves, 
the  mystery  has  been  too  commonly  explained  by  the  very 
easy  process  of  setting  it  down  as  in  fact  inexplicable, 
and  by  resolving  the  phenomenon  into  a  misgrowth  or 
Itisus  of  the  capricious  and  irregular  genius  of  Shakes- 
peare. The  shallow  and  stupid  arrogance  of  these  vulgar 
and  indolent  decisions  I  would  fain  do  my  best  to  expose. 
I  believe  the  character  of  Hamlet  may  be  traced  to 
Shakespeare's  deep  and  accurate  science  in  mental  philos- 
ophy. Indeed,  that  this  character  must  have  some  con- 
nection with  the  common  fundamental  laws  of  our 
nature  may  be  assumed  from  the  fact  that  Hamlet  has 
been  the  darling  of  every  country  in  which  the  literature 
of  England  has  been  fostered.  In  order  to  understand 
him,  it  is  essential  that  we  should  reflect  on  the  constitu- 
tion of  our  own  minds.  Man  is  distinguished  from  the 
brute  animals  in  proportion  as  thought  prevails  over  sense; 
but  in  the  healthy  processes  of  the  mind,  a  balance  is 
constantly  maintained  between  the  impressions  from  out- 
ward objects  and  the  inward  operations  of  the  intellect; 
for  if  there  be  an  overbalance  in  the  contemplative  faculty, 
man  thereby  becomes  the  creature  of  mere  meditation,  and 
loses  his  natural  power  of  action.  Now  one  of  Shakes- 
peare's modes  of  creating  characters  is  to  conceive  any 
one  intellectual  or  moral  faculty  in  morbid  excess,  and 
then  to  place  himself,  Shakespeare,  thus  mutilated  or 
diseased,  under  given  circumstances.  In  Hamlet  he 
seems  to  have  wished  to  exemplify  the  moral  necessity  of 
a  due  balance  betwen  our  attention  to  the  objects  of  our 
senses,  and  our  meditation  on  the  workings  of  our  minds, — 
an  equilibrium  between  the  real  and  the  imaginary  worlds. 
In  Hamlet  this  balance  is  disturbed :  his  thoughts,  and 
the  images  of  his  fancy,  are  far  more  vivid  than  his 
actual  perceptions,  and  his  very  perceptions,  instantly 
passing  through  the  medium  of  his  contemplations,  ac- 
quire, as  they  pass,  a  form  and  a  color  not  naturally 
their  own.  Hence  we  see  a  great — an  almost  enormous — 
intellectual  activity,  and  a  proportionate  aversion  to  real 
action,  consequent  upon  it,  with  all  its  symptoms  and 
accompanying    qualities.^*     This    character    Shakespeare 

'•Compare    Schlopel :      "The   whole    [play]    l8    Intended   to   show 
that   a   consideration    which    would    exhaust    all    the    relations   and 


150  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

places  in  circumstances  under  which  it  is  obliged  to  act 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment;  Hamlet  is  brave  and  careless 
of  death,  but  he  vacillates  from  sensibility,  and  procrasti- 
nates from  thought,  and  loses  the  power  of  action  in  the 
energy  of  resolve.  Thus  it  is  that  this  traegdy  presents 
a  direct  contrast  to  that  of  Macbeth;  the  one  proceeds 
with  the  utmost  slowness,  the  other  with  a  crowded  and 
breathless  rapidity. 

The  effect  of  this  overbalance  of  the  imaginative  power 
is  beautifully  illustrated  in  the  everlasting  broodings  and 
superfluous  activities  of  Hamlet's  mind,  which,  unseated 
from  its  healthy  relation,  is  constantly  occupied  with  the 
world  within,  and  abstracted  from  the  world  without, — 
giving  substance  to  shadows,  and  throwing  a  mist  over 
all  commonplace  actualities.  It  is  the  nature  of  thought 
to  be  indefinite;  definiteness  belongs  to  external  imagery 
alone.  Hence  it  is  that  the  sense  of  sublimity  arises,  not 
from  the  sight  of  an  outward  object,  but  from  the  be- 
holder's reflection  upon  it, — not  from  the  sensuous  im- 
pression, but  from  the  imaginative  reflex.  Few  have 
seen  a  celebrated  waterfall  witliout  feeling  something 
akin  to  disappointment;  it  is  only  subsequently  that  the 
image  comes  back  full  into  the  mind,  and  brings  with 
it  a  train  of  grand  or  beautiful  associations.  Hamlet 
feels  this;  his  senses  are  in  a  state  of  trance,  and 
he  looks  upon  external  things  as  hieroglyphics.  His 
soliloquy — 

O  that  this  too,  too  solid  flesh  would  melt!  etc. — ^* 

springs  from  that  craving  after  the  indefinite — for  that 
which  is  not — which  most  easily  besets  men  of  genius ;  and 
the  self-delusion  common  to  this  temper  of  mind  is  finely 
exemplified  in  the  character  which  Hamlet  gives  of  him- 
self: 

possible  consequences  of  a  deed,  to  the  very  limits  of  human  fore- 
sight, cripples  the  power  of  acting."  (Lecture  xil.)  See  also  a 
remark  of  Coleridge's  recorded  in  the  Table  Talk:  "[Hamlet] 
does  not  want  courage,  skill,  will,  or  opportunity ;  but  every  inci- 
dent sets  him  thinking ;  and  it  is  curious,  and  at  the  same  time 
strictly  natural,  that  Hamlet,  who  all  the  play  seems  reason 
itself,  should  be  impelled  at  last  by  mere  accident  to  effect  his 
object.  I  have  a  smack  of  Hamlet  myself,  if  I  may  say  so." 
'•I,  ii,  129. 


COLERIDGE  161 

It  cannot  be 
But  I  am  pigeon-liver'd,  and  lack  gall 
To  make  oppression  bitter," 

He  mistakes  the  seeing  his  chains  for  the  breaking  them, 
delays  action  till  action  is  of  no  use,  and  dies  the  victim 
of  mere  circumstance  and  accident. 

There  is  a  great  significancy  in  the  names  of  Shakes- 
peare's plays.  In  the  Twelfth  Night,  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  As  You  Like  It,  and  Winter's  Tale,  the  total  effect 
is  produced  by  a  co-ordination  of  the  characters  as  in  a 
wreath  of  flowers.  But  in  Coriolanus,  Lear,  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  Hamlet,  Othello,  etc.,  the  effect  arises  from  the 
subordination  of  all  to  one,  either  as  the  prominent  per- 
son, or  the  principal  object.  Cymheline  is  the  only  ex- 
ception; and  even  that  has  its  advantages  in  preparing 
the  audience  for  the  chaos  of  time,  place,  and  costume, 
by  throwing  the  date  back  into  a  fabulous  king's  reign. 

But  as  of  more  importance,  so  more  striking,  is  the 
judgment  displayed  by  our  truly  dramatic  poet,  as  well 
as  poet  of  the  drama,  in  the  management  of  his  first 
scenes.  With  the  single  exception  of  Cymheline,  they 
either  place  before  us  at  one  glance  both  the  past  and 
the  future  in  some  effect,  which  implies  the  continuance 
and  full  agency  of  its  cause,  as  in  the  feuds  and  party- 
spirit  of  the  servants  of  the  two  houses  in  the  first  scene 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet;  or  in  the  degrading  passion  for 
shows  and  public  spectacles,  and  the  overwhelming  at- 
tachment for  the  newest  successful  war-chief,  in  the 
Roman  people,  already  become  a  populace,  contrasted  with 
the  jealousy  of  the  nobles,  in  Julius  Ccesar; — or  they  at 
once  commence  the  action  so  as  to  excite  a  curiosity  for 
the  explanation  in  the  following  scenes,  as  in  the  storm' 
of  wind  and  waves  and  the  boatswain  in  The  Tempest, 
instead  of  anticipating  our  curiosity,  as  in  most  other 
first  scenes,  and  in  too  many  other  first  acts; — or  they 
act,  by  contrast  of  diction  suited  to  the  characters,  at  once 
to  heighten  the  effects,  and  yet  to  give  a  naturalness  to 
the  language  and  rhythm  of  the  principal  personages, 
either  as  that  of  Prospero  and  Miranda,  by  the  appropriate 
lowness  of  the  style,  or  as  in  King  John,  by  the  equally 

"  II,  11,  604-06. 


152  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

appropriate  stateliness  of  official  harangues  or  narratives, 
so  that  the  after  blank  verse  seems  to  belong  to  the  rank 
and  quality  of  the  speakers,  and  not  to  the  poet; — or 
they  strike  at  once  the  key-note,  and  give  the  predomi- 
nant spirit  of  the  play,  as  in  the  Twelfth  Night  and  in 
Macbeth; — or  finally,  the  first  scene  comprises  all  these 
advantages  at  once,  as  in  Hamlet. 

Compare  the  easy  language  of  common  life,  in  which 
this  drama  commences,  with  the  direful  music  and  wild 
wayward  rhythm  and  abrupt  lyrics  of  the  opening  of 
Macbeth.  The  tone  is  quite  familiar; — there  is  no  poetic 
description  of  night,  no  elaborate  information  conveyed 
by  one  speaker  to  another  of  what  both  had  immediately 
before  their  senses  (such  as  the  first  distich  in  Addison's 
Cato,^^  which  is  a  translation  into  poetry  of  "Past  four 
o'clock  and  a  dark  morning !") ;  and  yet  nothing  border- 
ing on  the  comic  on  the  one  hand,  nor  any  striving  of  the 
intellect  on  the  other.  It  is  precisely  the  language  of 
sensation  among  men  who  feared  no  charge  of  effeminacy 
for  feeling  what  they  had  no  want  of  resolution  to  bear. 
Yet  the  armor,  the  dead  silence,  the  watchfulness  that 
first  interrupts  it,  the  welcome  relief  of  the  guard,  the 
cold,  the  broken  expressions  of  compelled  attention  to 
bodily  feelings  still  under  control — all  excellently  accord 
with,  and  prepare  for,  the  after  gradual  rise  into  tragedy, 
— ^but,  above  all,  into  a  tragedy  the  interest  of  which  is 
as  eminently  ad  et  apud  intra  as  that  of  Macbeth  is 
directly  ad  extra.^^ 

In  all  the  best  attested  stories  of  ghosts  and  visions, 
as  in  that  of  Brutus,  of  Archbishop  Cranmer,  that  of 
Benvenuto  Cellini  recorded  by  himself,  and  the  vision  of 
Galileo  communicated  by  him  to  his  favorite  pupil, 
Torricelli,  the  ghost-seers  were  in  a  state  of  cold  or  chill- 
ing damp  from  without,  and  of  anxiety  inwardly.  It  has 
been  with  all  of  them  as  with  Francisco  on  his  guard, — 
alone,  in  the  depth  and  silence  of  the  night ;—" 'twas 
bitter  cold,  and  they  were  sick  at  heart,  and  not  a  mouse 
stirring."     The   attention    to    minute    sounds — naturally 

'•The  dawn  is  overcast,  the  morning  lowers. 
And  heavily  in  clouds  brings  on  the  day. 
"As  eminently   directed   toward,   and    concerned   with,   internal 
matters,  as  that  of  Macbeth  is  directed  toward  externals. 


COLERIDGE  153 

associated  with  the  recollection  of  minute  objects,  and  the 
more  familiar  and  trifling  the  more  impressive  from  the 
unusualness  of  their  producing  any  impression  at  all — 
gives  a  philosophic  pertinency  to  this  last  image;  but  it 
has  likewise  its  dramatic  use  and  purpose.  For  its  com- 
monness in  ordinary  conversation  tends  to  produce  the 
sense  of  reality,  and  in  its  component  parts,  though  not 
in  the  whole  composition,  really  is  the  language  of  nature. 
If  I  should  not  speak  it,  I  feel'  that  I  should  be  thinking 
it; — the  voice  only  is  the  poet's,  the  words  are  my  own. 
That  Shakespeare  meant  to  put  an  effect  in  the  actor's 
power  in  the  very  first  words — "Who's  there?" — is  evident 
from  the  impatience  expressed  by  the  startled  Francisco 
in  the  words  that  follow — "Nay,  answer  me:  stand  and 
unfold  yourself."  A  brave  man  is  never  so  peremptory 
as  when  he  fears  that  he  is  afraid.  Observ^e  the  gradual 
transition  from  the  silence  and  the  still  recent  habit  of 
listening,  in  Francisco's  "I  think  I  hear  them,"  to  the 
more  cheerful  call  out,  which  a  good  actor  would  observe, 
in  the  "Stand  ho!  Who  is  there?"  Bernardo's  inquiry 
after  Horatio,  and  the  repetition  of  his  name  and  in  his 
own  presence,  indicate  a  respect  or  an  eagerness  that 
implies  him  as  one  of  the  persons  who  are  in  the  fore- 
ground; and  the  skepticism  attributed  to  him — 

Horatio  says,  'tis  but  our  fantasy. 

And  will  not  let  belief  take  hold  of  him — 

prepares  us  for  Hamlet's  after-eulogy  on  him  as  one  whose 
blood  and  judgment  were  happily  commingled.  The  actor 
should  also  be  careful  to  distinguish  the  expectation  and 
gladness  of  Bernardo's  "Welcome,  Horatio!"  from  the 
mere  courtesy  of  his  "Welcome,  good  Marcellus !" 

Now  observe  the  admirable  indefiniteness  of  the  first 
opening  out  of  the  occasion  of  all  this  anxiety.  The 
preparation  informative  of  the  audience  is  just  as  much 
as  was  precisely  necessary,  and  no  more; — it  begins  with 
the  uncertainty  appertaining  to  a  question: 

What!   has  this  thing  appeared  again  to-night! 

Even  the  word  "again"  has  its  credibilizing  effect.  Then 
Horatio,  the  representative  of  the  ignorance  of  the  audi- 


154  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

ence,  not  himself,  but  by  Marcellus  to  Bernardo,  antici- 
pates the  common  solution — "  'tis  but  our  fantasy !"  upon 
which  Marcellus  rises  into 

This  dreaded  sight,  twice  seen  of  us — 

which  immediately  afterwards  becomes  "this  apparition," 
and  that,  too,  an  intelligent  spirit,  that  is,  to  be  spoken 
to  1     Then  comes  the  confirmation  of  Horatio's  disbelief, — 

Tush!  tush!  'twill  not  appear! — 

and  the  silence,  with  which  the  scene  opened,  is  again 
restored  in  the  shivering  feeling  of  Horatio  sitting  down, 
at  such  a  time,  and  with  the  two  eye-witnesses,  to  hear 
a  story  of  a  ghost,  and  that,  too,  of  a  ghost  which  had 
appeared  twice  before  at  the  very  same  hour.  In  the 
deep  feeling  which  Bernardo  has  of  the  solemn  nature 
of  what  he  is  about  to  relate,  he  makes  an  effort  to 
master  his  own  imaginative  terrors  by  an  elevation  of 
style, — itself  a  continuation  of  the  effort, — and  by  turn- 
ing off  from  the  apparition,  as  from  something  which 
would  force  him  too  deeply  into  himself,  to  the  outward 
objects,  the  realities  of  nature,  which  had  accompanied  it : 

Last    night    of    all. 
When  yon  same  star,  that's  westward  from  the  pole. 
Had  made  his  course  to  illume  that  part  of  heaven 
Where  now  it  burns,  Marcellus  and  myself, 
The  bell  then  beating  one. 

This  passage  seems  to  contradict  the  critical  law  that 
what  is  told  makes  a  faint  impression  compared  with 
what  is  beholden;  for  it  does  indeed  convey  to  the  mind 
more  than  the  eye  can  see;  whilst  the  interruption  of 
the  narrative  at  the  very  moment  when  we  are  most  in- 
tensely listening  for  the  sequel,  and  have  our  thoughts 
diverted  from  the  dreaded  sight  in  expectation  of  the 
desired,  yet  almost  dreaded,  tale — this  gives  all  the  sud- 
denness and  surprise  of  the  original  appearance; — 

Peace,  break  thee  off;   look,  where  it  comes  again! — 

Note  the  judgment  displayed  in  having  the  two  persons 
present,  who,  as  having  seen  the  ghost  before,  are  natu- 


COLERIDGE  155 

rally  eager  in  confirming  their  former  opinions,  whilst 
the  skeptic  is  silent,  and,  after  having  been  twice  ad- 
dressed by  his  friends,  answers  with  two  hasty  syllables — 
"Most  like," — and  a  confession  of  horror: 

It  harrows  me  with  fear  and   wonder. 

O  heaven  I  words  are  wasted  on  those  who  feel,  and  to 
those  who  do  not  feel  the  exquisite  judgment  of  Shakes- 
peare in  this  scene,  what  can  be  said?  Hume  himself 
could  not  but  have  had  faith  in  this  ghost  dramatically, 
let  his  anti-ghostism  have  been  as  strong  as  Samson 
against  other  ghosts  less  powerfully  raised. 

MACBETH 

Macbeth  stands  in  contrast  throughout  with  Hamlet;  in 
the  manner  of  opening  more  especially.  In  the  latter, 
there  is  a  gradual  ascent  from  the  simplest  forms  of  con- 
versation to  the  language  of  impassioned  intellect, — yet 
the  intellect  still  remaining  the  seat  of  passion:  in  the 
former,  the  invocation  is  at  once  made  to  the  imagination 
and  the  emotions  connected  therewith.  Hence  the  move- 
ment throughout  is  the  most  rapid  of  all  Shakespeare's 
plays;  and  hence  also,  with  the  exception  of  the  disgust- 
ing passage  of  the  Porter  (Act  II,  sc.  iii),  which  I  dare 
pledge  myself  to  demonstrate  to  be  an  interpolation  of 
the  actors,^"  there  is  not,  to  the  best  of  my  remembrance, 
a  single  pun  or  play  on  words  in  the  whole  drama. ^^  I 
have  previously  given  an  answer  to  the  thousand  times* 
repeated  charge  against  Shakespeare  upon  the  subject  of 
his  punning,  and  I  here  merely  mention  the  fact  of  the 
absence  of  any  puns  in  Macbeth,  as  justifying  a  candid 
doubt,  at  least,  whether  even  in  these  figures  of  speech 

"•On  this  passage  Hartley  Coleridge  wrote:  "My  father  seemed 
inclined  to  reject  as  not  genuine  In  Shakespeare  whatever  was 
not  worthy  of  Shakespeare."  The  "porter  scene"  Is  now  uni- 
versally accepted  as  Shakespearean  ;  see  the  notes  on  the  question 
In  Fnrness's  New  Variorum  edition. 

"  Compare  Schlegel :  "I  cannot  find  that  Shakespeare  had  such 
an  invincible  and  immoderate  passion  for  plays  on  words.  It  is 
true  he  often  makes  a  most  lavish  use  of  this  figure ;  in  other 
pieces  he  has  introduced  it  very  sparingly ;  and  in  some  of  them, 
for  example  in  Macbeth.  I  do  not  believe  that  the  least  vestige  of 
It  Is  to  be  found."     (Lecture  xll.) 


156  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

and  fanciful  modifications  of  language  Shakespeare  may 
not  have  followed  rules  and  principles  that  merit  and 
would  stand  the  test  of  philosophic  examination.  And 
hence,  also,  there  is  an  entire  absence  of  comedy,  nay, 
even  of  irony  and  philosophic  contemplation  in  Macbeth, — 
the  play  being  wholly  and  purely  tragic.  For  the  same 
cause,  there  are  no  reasonings  of  equivocal  morality,  which 
would  have  required  a  more  leisurely  state  and  a  con- 
sequently greater  activity  of  mind; — no  sophistry  of  self- 
delusion, — except  only  that,  previously  to  the  dreadful 
act,  Macbeth  mistranslates  the  recoilings  and  ominous 
whispers  of  conscience  into  prudential  and  selfish 
reasonings,  and,  after  the  deed  done,  the  terrors 
of  remorse  into  fear  from  external  dangers, — like 
delirious  men  who  run  away  from  the  phantoms  of  their 
own  brains,  or,  raised  by  terror  to  rage,  stab  the  real 
object  that  is  within  their  reach: — whilst  Lady  Macbeth 
merely  endeavors  to  reconcile  his  and  her  own  sinkings 
of  heart  by  anticipations  of  the  worst,  and  an  affected 
bravado  in  confronting  them.  In  all  the  rest,  Macbeth's 
language  is  the  grave  utterance  of  the  very  heart,  con- 
science-sick, even  to  the  last  faintings  of  moral  death.  It 
is  the  same  in  all  the  other  characters.  The  variety  arises 
from  rage,  caused  ever  and  anon  by  disruption  of  anxious 
thought,  and  the  quick  transition  of  fear  into  it. 

In  Hamlet  and  Macbeth  the  scene  opens  with  supersti- 
tion; but  in  each  it  is  not  merely  different,  but  opposite. 
In  the  first  it  is  connected  with  the  best  and  holiest  feel- 
ings; in  the  second  with  the  shadowy,  turbulent,  and 
unsanctified  cravings  of  the  individual  will.  Nor  is  the 
purpose  the  same :  in  the  one  the  object  is  to  excite,  whilst 
in  the  other  it  is  to  mark  a  mind  already  excited.  Super- 
stition, of  one  sort  or  another,  is  natural  to  victorious 
generals;  the  instances  are  too  notorious  to  need  men- 
tioning. There  is  so  much  of  chance  in  warfare,  and 
such  vast  events  are  connected  with  the  acts  of  a  single 
individual,  the  representative,  in  truth,  of  the  efforts 
of  myriads,  and  yet  to  the  public,  and  doubtless  to  his 
own  feelings,  the  aggregate  of  all, — that  the  proper  tem- 
perament for  generating  or  receiving  superstitious  im- 
pressions is  naturally  produced.  Hope,  the  master  ele- 
ment of  a  commanding  genius,  meeting  with  an  active 


COLERIDGE  157 

and  combining  intellect,  and  an  imagination  of  just  that 
degree  of  vividness  which  disquiets  and  impels  the  soul 
to  try  to  realize  its  images,  greatly  increases  the  creative 
power  of  the  mind;  and  hence  the  images  become  a  satis- 
fying world  in  themselves,  as  is  the  case  in  every  poet 
and  original  philosopher; — ^but  hope  fully  gratified,  and 
yet  the  elementary  basis  of  the  passion  remaining,  becomes 
fear;  and  indeed,  the  general,  who  must  often  feel,  even 
though  he  may  hide  it  from  his  own  consciousness,  how 
large  a  share  chance  had  in  his  successes,  may  very  natu- 
rally be  irresolute  in  a  new  scene,  where  he  knows  that 
all  will  depend  on  his  own  act  and  election. 

The  Weird  Sisters  are  as  true  a  creation  of  Shakes- 
peare's as  his  Ariel  and  Caliban, — fates,  furies,  and  ma- 
terializing witches  being  the  elements.  They  are  wholly 
different  from  any  representation  of  witches  in  the  con- 
temporary writers,  and  yet  presented  a  sufficient  external 
resemblance  to  the  creatures  of  vulgar  prejudice  to  act 
immediately  on  the  audience.  Their  character  consists 
in  the  imaginative  disconnected  from  the  good;  they  are 
the  shadowy  obscure  and  fearfully  anomalous  of  physical 
nature,  the  lawless  of  human  nature, — elemental  avengers 
without  sex  or  kin : 

Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair; 
Hover  thro'  the  fog  and  filthy  air. 

How  much  it  were  to  be  wished,  in  playing  Macbeth,  that 
an  attempt  should  be  made  to  introduce  the  flexible  char- 
acter-mask of  the  ancient  pantomime; — that  Flaxman  " 
would  contribute  his  genius  to  the  embodying  and  making 
sensuously  perceptible  that  of  Shakespeare! 

The  style  and  rhythm  of  the  Captain's  speeches  in  the 
second  scene  should  be  illustrated  by  reference  to  the 
interlude  in  Hamlet,^^  in  which  the  epic  is  substituted  for 
the  tragic,  in  order  to  make  the  latter  be  felt  as  the  real- 
life  diction.    In  Macbeth,  the  poet's  object  was  to  raise 

"A  distinguished  sculptor  (175.'?-1826).  For  the  idea,  compare 
Shelley,  p.  287.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  dramatist 
Maeterlinck,  in  the  period  of  his  early  symbolic  writings,  also 
expressed  a  wish  for  a  return  to  the  Greek  method  of  represent- 
ing tragic  characters  in  comparatively  impersonal  masks. 

»»III,   ii,  165  ff. 


168  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

the  mind  at  once  to  the  high  tragic  tone,  that  the  audience 
might  be  ready  for  the  precipitate  consummation  of  guilt 
in  the  early  part  of  the  play.  The  true  reason  for  the 
first  appearance  of  the  Witches  is  to  strike  the  key-note 
of  the  character  of  the  whole  drama,  as  is  proved  by  their 
re-appearance  in  the  third  scene,  after  such  an  order  of 
the  king's  as  establishes  their  supernatural  power  of  in- 
formation. I  say  information, — for  so  it  only  is  as  to 
Glamis  and  Cawdor;  the  "king  hereafter"  was  still  con- 
tingent— still  in  Macbeth's  moral  will;  although,  if  he 
should  yield  to  the  temptation,  and  thus  forfeit  his  free 
agency,  the  link  of  cause  and  effect  more  physico  would 
then  commence.  I  need  not  say  that  the  general  idea  is 
all  that  can  be  required  from  the  poet, — not  a  scholastic 
logical  consistency  in  all  the  parts  so  as  to  meet  meta- 
physical objectors.  But  O!  how  truly  Shakespearian  is 
the  opening  of  Macbeth's  character  given  in  the  unpos- 
sessedness  of  Banquo's  mind,  wholly  present  to  the  present 
object, — an  unsullied,  unscarified  mirror!  And  how 
strictly  true  to  nature  it  is  that  Banquo,  and  not  Macbeth 
himself,  directs  our  notice  to  the  effect  produced  on  Mac- 
becth's  mind,  rendered  temptable  by  previous  dalliance  of 
the  fan(^  with  ambitious  thoughts: 

Good  sir,  why  do  you  start,  and  seem  to  fear 
Things  that  do  sound  so  fair? 

And  then,  again,  still  unintroitive,  addresses  the  Witches : 

I'  the  name  of  truth, 
Are  ye  fantastical,  or  that  indeed 
Which  outwardly  ye  show? 

Banquo's  questions  are  those  of  natural  curiosity, — such 
as  a  girl  would  put  after  hearing  a  gypsy  tell  her  school- 
fellow's fortune, — all  perfectly  general,  or  rather  planless. 
But  Macbeth,  lost  in  thought,  raises  himself  to  si)eech  only 
by  the  Witches  being  about  to  depart : 

Stay,  you  imperfect  speakers,  tell  me  more: — 

and  all  that  follows  is  reasoning  on  a  problem  already  dis- 
cussed in  his  mind, — on  a  hope  which  he  welcomes,  and 


COLERIDGE  169 

the  doubts  concerning  the  attainment  of  which  he  wishes 
to  have  cleared  up.  Compare  his  eagerness, — ^the  keen 
eye  with  which  he  has  pursued  the  Witches'  evanishing — 

Speak,  I  charge  you! — 

with  the  easily  satisfied  mind  of  the  self-uninterested 
Banquo : 

The  air  hath  bubbles,  as  the  water  has, 

And  these  are  of  them: — whither  are  they  vanish'd? 

and  then  Macbeth's  earnest  reply : 

Into  the  air;  and  what  seem'd  corporal  melted 
As  breath  into  the  wind — Would  they  had  stay'dt 

Is  it  too  minute  to  notice  the  appropriateness  of  the  simile 
"as  breath,"  etc.,  in  a  cold  climate? 

Still  again  Banquo  goes  on  wondering,  like  any  com- 
mon spectator: 

Were  such  things  here  as  we  do  speak  about  T 

whilst  Macbeth  persists  in  recurring  to  the  self-concern- 
ing: 

Your  children  shall  be  kings. 

Ban.    You  shall  be  king. 
Maoh.    And  thane  of  Cawdor  too:  went  it  not  so? 

So  surely  is  the  guilt  in  its  germ  anterior  to  the  supposed 
cause,  and  immediate  temptation!  Before  he  can  cool, 
the  confirmation  of  the  tempting  half  of  the  prophecy 
arrives,  and  the  concatenating  tendency  of  the  imagina- 
tion is  fostered  by  the  sudden  coincidence: 

Glamis,  and  thane  of  Cawdor: 
The  greatest  is  behind. 

Oppose  this  to  Banquo's  simple  surprise:  "What,  can  the 
devil  speak  true?" 


160  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

KEATS'S  "ENDYMION" 

John  Wilson  Croker 

[This  famous  review,  falsely  reputed  to  have  wounded  Keata 
so  deeply  as  to  cause  his  death,  appeared  in  the  Quarterly 
Review  for  April,  1818.  Croker's  authorship  became  known 
only  after  many  years.] 

Reviewers  have  been  sometimes  accused  of  not  reading 
the  works  which  they  affected  to  criticize.  On  the  pres- 
ent occasion  we  shall  anticipate  the  author's  complaint, 
and  honestly  confess  that  we  have  not  read  his  work. 
Not  that  we  have  been  wanting  in  our  duty — far  from 
it;  indeed  we  have  made  efforts  almost  as  superhuman 
as  the'  story  itself  appears  to  be,  to  get  through  it ;  but 
with  the  fullest  stretch  of  our  perseverance  we  are  forced 
to  confess  that  we  have  not  been  able  to  struggle  beyond 
the  first  of  the  four  books  of  which  this  Poetic  Romance 
consists.  We  should  extremely  lament  this  want  of  en- 
ergy, or  whatever  it  may  be,  on  our  parts,  were  it  not  for 
one  consolation, — namely,  that  we  are  no  better  acquainted 
with  the  meaning  of  the  book  through  which  we  have  so 
painfully  toiled,  than  we  are  with  that  of  the  three  which 
we  have  not  looked  into. 

It  is  not  that  Mr.  Keats  (if  that  be  his  real  name,  for 
we  almost  doubt  that  any  man  in  his  senses  would  put 
his  real  name  to  such  a  rhapsody), — it  is  not,  we  say, 
that  the  author  has  not  powers  of  language,  rays  of  fancy, 
and  gleams  of  genius;  he  has  all  these;  but  he  is  un- 
happily a  disciple  of  the  new  school  of  what  has  been 
somewhere  called  Cockney  poetry,  which  may  be  defined 
to  consist  of  the  most  incongruous  ideas  in  the  most 
uncouth  language.  Of  this  school  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  as 
we  observed  in  a  former  number,  aspires  to  be  the  hiero- 
phant.  Our  readers  will  recollect  the  pleasant  recipes  for 
harmonious  and  sublime  poetry  which  he  gave  us  in  his 
preface  to  Rimini,^  and  the  still  more  facetious  instances 
of  his  harmony  and  sublimity  in  the  verses  themselves; 

•  In  this  Preface  Hunt  attacked  the  versification  of  the  school 
of  Pope,  and  also  advocated,  like  Wordsworth,  poetic  language 
"In  nothing  different  from  that  of  real  life." 


QUARTERLY  REVIEW  161 

and  they  will  recollect  above  all  the  contempt  of  Pope, 
Johnson,  and  such  like  poetasters  and  pseudo-critics, 
which  so  forcibly  contrasted  itself  with  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt's 
self-complacent  approbation  of 

all  the  things  itself  had  wrote, 
Of  special  merit  though  of  little  note.* 

This  author  is  a  copyist  of  Mr.  Hunt;  but  he  is  more 
unintelligible,  almost  as  rugged,  twice  as  diffuse,  and  ten 
times  more  tiresome  and  absurd  than  his  prototype,  who, 
though  he  impudently  presumed  to  seat  himself  in  the 
chair  of  criticism  and  to  measure  his  own  poetry  by  his 
own  standard,  yet  generally  had  a  meaning.  But  Mr. 
Keats  has  advanced  no  dogmas  which  he  was  bound  to 
support  by  examples;  his  nonsense  therefore  is  quite 
gratuitous;  he  writes  it  for  its  own  sake,  and,  being  bitten 
by  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt's  insane  criticism,  more  than  rivals 
the  insanity  of  his  poetry. 

Mr.  Keats's  preface  hints  that  his  poem  was  produced 
under  peculiar  circumstances.  "Knowing  within  myself," 
he  says,  "the  manner  in  which  this  poem  has  been  pro- 
duced, it  is  not  without  a  feeling  of  regret  that  I  make  it 
public.  What  manner  I  mean  will  be  quite  clear  to  the 
reader,  who  must  soon  perceive  great  inexperience,  imma- 
turity, and  every  error  denoting  a  feverish  attempt  rather 
than  a  deed  accomplished."  We  humbly  beg  his  pardon, 
but  this  does  not  appear  to  us  to  be  quite  so  clear — we 
really  do  not  know  what  he  means;  but  the  next  passage 
is  more  intelligible.  "The  first  two  books,  and  indeed  the 
two  last,  I  feel  sensible  are  not  of  such  completion  as  to 
warrant  their  passing  the  press."  Thus  "the  two  first 
books"  are,  even  in  his  own  judgment,  unfit  to  appear, 
and  "the  two  last"  are,  it  seems,  in  the  same  condition; 
and  as  two  and  two  make  four,  and  as  that  is  the  whole 
number  of  books,  we  have  a  clear  and,  we  believe,  a  very 
just  estimate  of  the  entire  work. 

Mr.  Keats,  however,  deprecates  criticism  on  this  "im- 
mature and  feverish  work"  in  terras  which  are  themselves 
sufficiently  feverish;  and  we  confess  that  we  should  have 
abstained  from  inflicting  upon  him  any  of  the  tortures 

'  From  Churchill's  Rotciad,  lines  155-6. 


162  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

of  the  "fierce  hell"  of  criticism,  which  terrify  his  imag- 
ination, if  he  had  not  b^ged  to  be  spared  in  order  that 
he  might  write  more, — if  we  had  not  observed  in  him  a 
certain  degree  of  talent  which  deserves  to  be  put  in  the 
right  way,  or  which  at  least  ought  to  be  warned  of  the 
wrong;  and  if,  finally,  he  had  not  told  us  that  he  is  of 
an  age  and  temper  which  imperiously  require  mental 
discipline. 

Of  the  story  we  have  been  able  to  make  out  but  little; 
it  seems  to  be  mythological,  and  probably  relates  to  the 
loves  of  Diana  and  Endymion;  but  of  this,  as  the  scope 
of  the  work  has  altogether  escaped  us,  we  cannot  speak 
with  any  degree  of  certainty,  and  must  therefore  content 
ourselves  with  giving  some  instances  of  its  diction  and 
versification; — and  here  again  we  are  perplexed  and  puz- 
zled. At  first  it  appeared  to  us  that  Mr.  Keats  had  been 
amusing  himself  and  wearying  his  readers  with  an  im- 
measurable game  at  h outs-rimes ;  ^  but,  if  we  recollect 
rightly,  it  is  an  indispensable  condition  at  this  play  that 
the  rhymes  when  filled  up  shall  have  a  meaning,  and  our 
author,  as  we  have  already  hinted,  has  no  meaning.  He 
seems  to  us  to  write  a  line  at  random,  and  then  he  fol- 
lows not  the  thought  excited  by  this  line,  but  that  sug- 
gested by  the  rhyme  with  which  it  concludes.  There  is 
hardly  a  complete  couplet  enclosing  a  complete  idea  in 
the  whole  book.  He  wanders  from  one  subject  to  an- 
other, from  the  association,  not  of  the  ideas  but  of  sounds, 
and  the  work  is  composed  of  hemistichs  which,  it  is  quite 
evident,  have  forced  themselves  upon  the  author  by  the 
mere  force  of  the  catchwords  on  which  they  turn. 

We  shall  select,  not  as  the  most  striking  instance,  but 
as  that  least  liable  to  suspicion,  a  passage  from  the  open- 
ing of  the  poem. 

Such  the  sun,  the  moon, 
Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 
For  simple  sheep;  and  such  are  daffodils 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in;  and  clear  rills 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season;  the  mid-forest  brake, 
Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms: 
And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead ;  etc.,  etc. 
'A  contest  In  fitting  verses  to  end-rimes. 


QUARTERLY  REVIEW  163 

Here  it  is  clear  that  the  word,  and  not  the  idea,  moon 
produces  the  simple  sheep  and  their  shady  boon,  and  that 
"the  dooms  of  the  mighty  dead"  would  never  have  in- 
truded themselves  but  for  the  "fair  musk-rose  blooms." 

Again : — 

For  't  was  the  morn:  Apollo's  upward  fire 
Made  every  eastern  cloud  a  silvery  pyre 
Of  brightness  so  unsullied  that  therein 
A  melancholy  spirit  well  might  win 
Oblivion,  and  melt  out  his  essence  fine 
Into  the  winds;  rain-scented  eglantine 
Gave  temperate  sweets  to  that  well-wooing  sun; 
The  lark  was  lost  in  him;  cold  springs  had  run 
To  warm  their  chilliest  bubbles  in  the  grass; 
Man's  voice  was  on  the  mountains;  and  the  mass 
Of  nature's  lives  and  wonders  puls'd  tenfold. 
To  feel  this  sunrise  and  its  glories  old. 

Here  Apollo's  fire  produces  a  pyre,  a  silvery  pyre  of 
clouds,  wherein  a  spirit  might  win  oblivion  and  melt  his 
essence  fine,  and  scented  eglantine  gives  sweets  to  the  sun, 
and  cold  springs  had  run  into  the  grass,  and  then  the 
pulse  of  the  rruiss  pulsed  ten-fold  to  feel  the  glories  old 
of  the  new-born  day,  etc. 
One  example  more. 

Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings,  such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven, 
Then  leave  the  naked  brain;  be  still  the  leaven 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth 
Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal — a  new  birth. 

Lodge,  dodge — heaven,  leaven — earth,  "birth;  such,  in  six 
words,  is  the  sum  and  substance  of  six  lines. 

We  come  now  to  the  author's  taste  in  versification.  He 
cannot  indeed  write  a  sentence,  but  perhaps  he  may  be 
able  to  spin  a  line.  Let  us  see.  The  following  are  speci- 
mens of  his  prosodial  notions  of  our  English  heroic  meter^ 

Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon, 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite. 

80  plenteously  all  weed-hidden  roots. 


164  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Of  some  strange  history,  potent  to  send. 

Before  the  deep  intoxication. 

Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion. 

The  stubborn  canvas  for  my  voyage  prepared. 

Endymion!   the  cave  is  secreter 
Than  the  isle  of  Delos.     Echo  hence  shall  stir 
No  sighs  but  sigh-warm  kisses,  or  light  noise 
Of  thy  combing  hand,  the  while  it  traveling  cloys 
And  trembles  through  my  labyrinthine  hair. 

By  this  time  our  readers  must  be  pretty  well  satisfied 
as  to  the  meaning  of  his  sentences  and  the  structure  of 
his  lines;  we  now  present  them  with  some  of  the  new 
words  with  which,  in  imitation  of  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  he 
adorns  our  language.  We  are  told  that  "turtles  passion 
their  voices";  that  "an  arbour  was  nested"  and  a  lady's 
locks  "gordian'd  up";  and,  to  supply  the  place  of  the 
nouns  thus  verbalized,  Mr.  Keats  with  great  fecundity 
spawns  new  ones,  such  as  "men-slugs  and  human  ser- 
pentry,"  the  "honey-feel  of  bliss,"  "wives  prepare  need- 
ments," and  so  forth. 

Then  he  has  formed  new  verbs  by  the  process  of  cutting 
off  their  natural  tails,  the  adverbs,  and  affixing  them  to 
their  foreheads;  thus,  "the  wine  out-sparkled,"  the  "mul- 
titude up-followed,"  and  "night  up-took";  "the  wind  up- 
blows,"  and  the  "hours  are  down-sunken."  But  if  he 
sinks  some  adverbs  in  the  verbs,  he  compensates  the  lan- 
guage with  adverbs  and  adjectives  which  he  separates 
from  the  parent  stock.  Thus  a  lady  "whispers  paniingly 
and  close,"  makes  "hushing  signs,"  and  steers  her  skiff 
into  a  "ripply  cove";  a  shower  falls  "refreshfully,"  and 
a  vulture  has  a  "spreaded  tail." 

But  enough  of  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  and  his  simple  neo- 
phyte. If  any  one  should  be  bold  enough  to  purchase  this 
"Poetic  Romance,"  and  so  much  more  patient  than  our- 
selves as  to  get  beyond  the  first  book,  and  so  much  more 
fortunate  as  to  find  a  meaning,  we  entreat  him  to  make  us 
acquainted  with  his  success;  we  shall  then  return  to  the 
task  which  we  now  abandon  in  despair,  and  endeavor  to 
make  all  due  amends  to  Mr.  Keats  and  to  our  readers. 


BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE       165 


THE  COCKNEY  SCHOOL  OF  POETRY:  KEATS 

[A  savage  series  of  articles  attacking  "the  Cockney  scbool" 
(which  consisted,  in  the  writer's  view,  of  Leigh  Hunt,  Keats, 
and  their  London  friends)  appeared  in  Blaoktcood's  Magazine 
in  1817-19,  signed  "Z."  The  authorship  has  never  been  made 
certain;  the  most  plausible  claimant  appears  to  be  John  G. 
Lockhart,  later  editor  of  the  Quarterly.  The  present  paper, 
dealing  with  Endymion,  was  the  fourth  of  the  series,  appear- 
ing  in  the  number  for  August,  1818.] 

Of  all  the  manias  of  this  mad  age,  the  most  incurable, 
as  well  as  the  most  common,  seems  to  be  no  other  than 
the  metromanie.  The  just  celebrity  of  Robert  Bums  and 
Miss  Baillie  ^  has  had  the  melancholy  effect  of  turning  the 
heads  of  we  know  not  how  many  farm-servants  and  un- 
married ladies;  our  very  footmen  compose  tragedies,  and 
there  is  scarcely  a  superannuated  governess  in  the  island 
that  does  not  leave  a  roll  of  lyrics  behind  her  in  her  band- 
box. To  witness  the  disease  of  any  human  understand- 
ing, however  feeble,  is  distressing;  but  the  spectacle  of 
an  able  mind  reduced  to  a  state  of  insanity  is  of  course 
ten  times  more  afflicting.  It  is  with  such  sorrow  as  this 
that  we  have  contemplated  the  case  of  Mr.  John  Keats. 
This  young  man  appears  to  have  received  from  nature 
talents  of  an  excellent,  perhaps  even  of  a  superior  order, 
— talents  which,  devoted  to  the  purposes  of  any  useful 
profession,  must  have  rendered  him  a  respectable  if  not 
an  eminent  citizen.  His  friends,  we  understand,  destined 
him  to  the  career  of  medicine,  and  he  was  bound  appren- 
tice some  years  ago  to  a  worthy  apothecary  in  town.  But 
all  has  been  undone  by  a  sudden  attack  of  the  malady  to 
which  we  have  alluded.  Whether  Mr.  John  had  been 
sent  home  with  a  diuretic  or  composing  draught  to  some 
patient  far  gone  in  the  poetical  mania,  we  have  not  heard. 
This  much  is  certain,  that  he  has  caught  the  infection, 
and  that  thoroughly.  For  some  time  we  were  in  hopes 
that  he  might  get  off  with  a  violent  fit  or  two,  but  of 
late  the  symptoms  are  terrible.  The  frenzy  of  the  Poems 
was  bad  enough  in  its  way,  but  it  did  not  alarm  us  half 

I  Joanna  Baillie  (1762-1851),  author  of  a  number  of  poetic 
dramas. 


166  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

so  seriously  as  the  calm,  settled,  imperturbable  driveling 
idiocy  of  the  Endymion.  We  hope,  however,  that  in  so 
young  a  person,  and  with  a  constitution  originally  so 
good,  even  now  the  disease  is  not  utterly  incurable. 
Time,  firm  treatment,  and  rational  restraint,  do  much  for 
many  apparently  hopeless  invalids;  and  if  Mr.  Keats 
should  happen,  at  some  interval  of  reason,  to  cast  his  eye 
upon  our  pages,  he  may  perhaps  be  convinced  of  the  ex- 
istence of  his  malady,  which  in  such  cases  is  often  all 
that  is  necessary  to  put  the  patient  in  a  fair  way  of  be- 
ing cured. 

The  readers  of  the  Examiner  newspaper  were  informed, 
some  time  ago,  by  a  solemn  paragraph  in  Mr.  Hunt's  best 
style,  of  the  appearance  of  two  new  stars  of  glorious  mag- 
nitude and  splendor  in  the  poetical  horizon  of  the  land 
of  Cockaigne,  One  of  these  turned  out,  by  and  by,  to 
be  no  other  than  Mr.  John  Keats.  This  precocious  adula- 
tion confirmed  the  wavering  apprentice  in  his  desire  to 
quit  the  gallipots,  and  at  the  same  time  excited  in  his  too 
susceptible  mind  a  fatal  admiration  for  the  character  and 
talents  of  the  most  worthless  and  affected  of  all  the  versi- 
fiers of  our  time.  One  of  his  first  productions  was  the 
following  sonnet,  "Written  on  the  day  when  Mr.  Leigh 
Hunt  left  prison."  It  will  be  recollected  that  the  cause 
of  Hunt's  confinement  was  a  series  of  libels  against  his 
sovereign,  and  that  its  fruit  was  the  odious  and  inces- 
tuous Story  of  Rimini.'^ 

What  though,  for  showing  truth  to  flattered  state, 
Kind  Hunt  was  shut  in  prison,  yet  has  he 
In  his  immortal  spirit  been  as  free 
As  the  sky-searching  lark  and  as  elate. 
Minion  of  grandeur!  think  you  he  did  wait? 
Think  you  he  nought  but  prison  walls  did  see. 
Till,  so  unwilling,  thou  unturnd'st  the  key? 
Ah,  no!  far  happier,  nobler  was  his  fate! 

•Hunt  was  confined  In  the  Surrey  Jail.  1813-1815,  because  of  an 
article  in  wliich  he  had  described  the  Prince  Kcpent  as  "a  violator 
of  his  word,  a  libertine  over  head  and  ears  in  disgrace,  a  despiser 
of  domestic  ties,  the  companion  of  gamblers."  etc.  While  in  prison 
he  composed  Rimini,  a  version  of  the  old  story  of  Paolo  and 
Prancesca,  which  his  enemies  were  pleased  to  represent  as  im- 
moral because  it  treated  sympathetically  of  the  love  of  Paolo  for 
his  brother's  wife. 


BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE  167 

In  Bpenser'a  halU  he  strayed,  and  bowers  fair, 

Culling  enchanted  flowers;  and  he  flew 

With  daring  Milton  through  the  fields  of  air; 

To  regions  of  his  own  his  genius  true 

Took  nappy  flights.     Who  shall  his  fame  impair 

When  thou  art  dead,  and  all  thy  wretched  crew? 

The  absurdity  of  the  thought  in  this  sonnet  is,  however, 
if  possible,  surpassed  in  another,  "addressed  to  Haydon" 
the  painter,  that  clever  but  most  affected  artist,  who  as 
little  resembles  Raphael  in  genius  as  he  does  in  person, 
notwithstanding  the  foppery  of  having  his  hair  curled  over 
his  shoulders  in  the  old  Italian  fashion.  In  this  exquis- 
ite piece  it  will  be  observed  that  Mr.  Keats  classes  to- 
gether Wordsworth,  Hunt,  and  Haydon,  as  the  three  great- 
est spirits  of  the  age,  and  that  he  alludes  to  himself,  and 
some  others  of  the  rising  brood  of  Cockneys,  as  likely  to 
attain  hereafter  an  equally  honorable  elevation.  Words- 
worth and  Hunt!  what  a  juxtaposition!  The  purest,  lofti- 
est, and,  we  do  not  fear  to  say  it,  the  most  classical  of 
living  English  poets,  joined  together  in  the  same  com- 
pliment with  the  meanest,  filthiest,  and  the  most  vulgar 
of  Cockney  poetasters.  No  wonder  that  he  who  could  be 
guilty  of  this  should  class  Haydon  with  Raphael,  and 
himself  with  Spenser. 

Great  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning; 
He  of  the  cloud,  the  cataract,  the  lake, 
Who  on  Helvt'Uyn's  summit,  wide  awake, 
Catches  his  freshness  from  Archangel's  wing: 
He  of  the  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring, 
The  social  smile,  the  chain  for  Freedom's  sake: 
And  lo!  whose  stendfaatnoss  would  never  take 
A  meaner  sound  than  Raphael's  whispering. 
And  other  spirits  there  are  standing  apart 
Upon  the  forehead  of  the  age  to  come; 
These,  these  will  give  the  world  another  heart, 
And  other  pulses.     Hear  ye  not  the  hum 
Of  mighty  workings! — 
Listen  awhile,  ye  nations,  and  be  dumb. 

The  nations  are  to  listen  and  be  dumb!  And  why,  good 
Johnny  Keats?  Because  Leigh  Hunt  is  editor  of  the 
Exam.iner,    and    Haydon    has    painted    the   Judgment   of 


168  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Solomon,  and  you  and  Cornelius  Webb,'  and  a  few  more 
city  sparks,  are  pleased  to  look  upon  yourselves  as  so 
many  future  Shakespeares  and  Miltons  The  world  has 
really  some  reason  to  look  to  its  foundations!  Here  is 
a  tempestas  in  matula  with  a  vengeance.  At  the  period 
when  these  sonnets  were  published  Mr.  Keats  had  no  hesi- 
tation in  saying  that  he  looked  on  himself  as  "not  yet 
a  glorious  denizen  of  the  wide  heaven  of  poetry,"  but  he 
had  many  fine  soothing  visions  of  coming  greatness,  and 
many  rare  plans  of  study  to  prepare  him  for  it.  The 
following  we  think  is  very  pretty  raving. 

Why  so  sad  a  moan? 
Life  is  the  rose's  hope  while  yet  unblown; 
The  reading  of  an  ever-changing  tale; 
The  light  uplifting  of  a  maiden's  veil; 
A  pigeon  tumbling  in  clear  summer  air; 
A  laughing  school-boy,  without  grief  or  care, 
Riding  the  springing  branches  of  an  elm. 

O  for  ten  years,  that  I  may  overwhelm 
Myself  in  poesy;  so  I  may  do  the  deed 
That  my  own  soul  has  to  itself  decreed. 
Then  will  I  pass  the  countries  that  I  see 
In  long  perspective,  and  continually 
Taste  their  pure  fountains.*  .  .  . 

Having  cooled  a  little  from  this  "fine  passion,"  our 
youthful  poet  passes  very  naturally  into  a  long  strain  of 
foaming  abuse  against  a  certain  class  of  English  poets 
whom,  with  Pope  at  their  head,  it  is  much  the  fashion 
with  the  ignorant  unsettled  pretenders  of  the  present 
time  to  undervalue.  Begging  these  gentlemen's  pardon, 
although  Pope  was  not  a  poet  of  the  same  high  order  with 
some  who  are  now  living,  yet  to  deny  his  genius  is  just 
about  as  absurd  as  to  dispute  that  of  Wordsworth  or  to 
believe  in  that  of  Hunt.  Above  all  things  it  is  most 
pitiably  ridiculous  to  hear  men  of  whom  their  country 
will  always  have  reason  to  be  proud,  reviled  by  uneducated 
and  flimsy  striplings,  who  are  not  capable  of  understand- 

*A  minor  poet  who,  In  certain  yeraes,  bad  called  Keats  "the 
Muses'  BOD  of  promise." 

« From  the  poem  called  "Sleep  and  Poetry."  The  reviewer 
quotes  twenty  lines  more. 


BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE  169 

ing  either  their  merits  or  those  of  any  other  men  of 
power, — fanciful  dreaming  tea-drinkers,  who,  without  logic 
enough  to  analyze  a  single  idea,  or  imagination  enough 
to  form  one  original  image,  or  learning  enough  to  dis- 
tinguish between  the  written  language  of  Englishmen 
and  the  spoken  jargon  of  Cockneys,  presume  to  talk  with 
contempt  of  some  of  the  most  exquisite  spirits  the  world 
ever  produced,  merely  because  they  did  not  happen  to 
exert  their  faculties  in  laborious  affected  descriptions  of 
flowers  seen  in  window-pots,  or  cascades  heard  at  Vaux- 
hall ;  °  in  short,  because  they  chose  to  be  wits,  philosoph- 
ers, patriots,  and  poets,  rather  than  to  found  the  Cockney 
school  of  versification,  morality,  and  politics,  a  century 
before  its  time.  After  blaspheming  himself  into  a  fury 
against  Boileau,  etc.,*  Mr.  Keats  comforts  himself  and 
his  readers  with  a  view  of  the  present  more  promising 
aspect  of  affairs;  above  all,  with  the  ripened  glories  of 
the  poet  of  Rimini.  Addressing  the  manes  of  the  de- 
parted chiefs  of  English  poetry,  he  informs  them,  in  the 
following  clear  and  touching  manner,  of  the  existence  of 
"him  of  the  rose,"  etc. 

From  a  thick  brake, 
Nested  and  quiet  in  a  valley  mild, 
Bubbles  a  pipe;  fine  sounds  are  floating  wild 
About  the  earth.     Happy  are  ye  and  glad. 

From  this  he  diverges  into  a  view  of  "things  in  general." 
We  smile  when  we  think  to  ourselves  how  little  most  of 
our  readers  will  understand  of  what  follows. 

Yet  I  rejoice:   a  myrtle  fairer  than 

E'er  grew  in  Paphos,  from  the  bitter  weeds 

Lifts  its  sweet  head  into  the  air,  and  feeds 

A  silent  space  with  ever  sprouting  green. 

All  tenderest  birds  there  find  a  pleasant  screen, 

Creep  through  the  shade  with  jaunty  fluttering, 

Nibble  the  little  cupped  flowers,  and  sing.  .  .  . 

•  A  pleasure-park  near  London. 

•  Referring  to   the   classicists   of   the   eighteenth    century,    Keats 
had  written 

They  went  about, 
Holding  a  poor,  decrepit  standard  out 
Mark'd   with  most   flimsy   mottoes,   and  in   large 
The  name  of  one  Boileau ! 


170  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

Will  not  some  say  that  I  presumptously 
Have  spoken?  that  from  hastening  disgrace 
'Twere  better  far  to  hide  my  foolish  face? 
That  whining  boyhood  should  with  reverence  bow 
Ere  the  dreadful  thunderbolt  could  reach?    How! 
If  I  do  hide  myself,  it  sure  shall  be 
In  the  very  fane,  the  light  of  poesy. 

From  some  verses  addressed  to  various  amiable  indi- 
viduals of  the  other  sex,  it  appears,  notwithstanding  all 
this  gossamer-work,  that  Johnny's  affections  are  not  en- 
tirely confined  to  objects  purely  ethereal.  Take,  by  way 
of  specimen,  the  following  prurient  and  vulgar  lines,  evi- 
dently meant  for  some  young  lady  east  of  Temple  Bar. 

Add  too  the  sweetness 
Of  thjr  honied  voice;  the  neatness 
Of  thine  ankle  lightly  turn'd: 
With  those  beauties,  scarce  discern'd. 
Kept  with  such  sweet  privacy 
That  they  seldom  meet  the  eye 
Of  the  little  loves  that  fly 
Round  about  with  eager  pry; 
Saving  when,  with  freshening  lave, 
Thou  dipp'st  them  in  the  taintless  wave; 
Like  twin  water  lilies,  born 
In  the  coolness  of  the  morn. 
O,  if  thou  hadst  breathed  then, 
Now  the  Muses  had  been  ten. 
Couldst  thou  wish  for  lineage  higher 
Than  twin  sister  of  Thaliaf 
At  last  for  ever,  evermore, 
Will  I  call  the  Graces  four. 

Who  will  dispute  that  our  poet,  to  use  his  own  phrase 
(and  rhyme). 

Can  mingle  music  fit  for  the  soft  ear 
Of  Lady  Cythereat 

So  much  for  the  opening  bud;  now  for  the  expanded 
flower.  It  is  time  to  pass  from  the  juvenile  "Poems"  to 
the  mature  and  elaborate  Endymion,  a  Poetic  Romance. 
The  old  story  of  the  moon  falling  in  love  with  a  shepherd, 
80  prettily  told  by  a  Roman  classic,  and  so  exquisitely 


BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE  171 

enlarged  and  adorned  by  one  of  the  most  elegant  of 
German  poets,^  has  been  seized  upon  by  Mr.  John  Keats, 
to  be  done  with  as  might  seem  good  unto  the  sickly  fancy 
of  one  who  never  read  a  single  line  either  of  Ovid  or  of 
Wieland.  If  the  quantity,  not  the  quality,  of  the  verses 
dedicated  to  the  story  is  to  be  taken  into  account,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  Mr.  John  Keats  may  now  claim 
Endymion  entirely  to  himself.  To  say  the  truth,  we  do 
not  suppose  either  the  Latin  or  the  German  poet  would 
be  very  anxious  to  dispute  about  the  property  of  the  hero 
of  the  'Toetic  Romance."  Mr.  Keats  has  thoroughly  ap- 
propriated the  character,  if  not  the  name.  His  Endymion 
is  not  a  Greek  shepherd,  loved  by  a  Grecian  goddess;  he 
is  merely  a  young  Cockney  rhymester,  dreaming  a  fan- 
tastic dream  at  the  full  of  the  moon.  Costume,  were  it 
worth  while  to  notice  such  a  trifle,  is  violated  in  every 
page  of  this  goodly  octavo.  From  his  prototype  Hunt, 
John  Keats  has  acquired  a  sort  of  vague  idea  that  the 
Greeks  were  a  most  tasteful  people,  and  that  no  mythol- 
ogy can  be  so  finely  adapted  for  the  purposes  of  poetry  as 
theirs.  It  is  amusing  to  see  what  a  hand  the  two  Cock- 
neys make  of  this  mythology;  the  one  confesses  that  he 
never  read  the  Greek  tragedians,  and  the  other  knows 
Homer  only  from  Chapman ;  *  and  both  of  them  write  about 
Apollo,  Pan,  Nymphs,  Muses,  and  Mysteries,  as  might  be 
expected  from  persons  of  their  education.  We  shall  not, 
however,  enlarge  at  present  upon  this  subject,  as  we 
mean  to  dedicate  an  entire  paper  to  the  classical  attain- 
ments and  attempts  of  the  Cockney  poets.  As  for  Mr. 
Keats's  Endymion,  it  has  just  as  much  to  do  with  Greece 
as  it  has  with  "old  Tartary  the  fierce";  no  man,  whose 
mind  has  ever  been  imbued  with  the  smallest  knowledge 
or  feeling  of  classical  poetry  or  classical  history,  could 
have  stooped  to  profane  and  vulgarize  every  association 
in  the  manner  which  has  been  adopted  by  this  "son  of 
promise."  Before  giving  any  extracts,  we  must  inform 
our  readers  that  this  romance  is  meant  to  be  written  in 
English  heroic  rhyme.  To  those  who  have  read  any  of 
Hunt's  poems,  this  hint  might  indeed  be  needless.     Mr. 

■'In  Wlolnnd's  Comische  ErzShlungen. 

'  The  Elizabethan   translator  of   Uomer ;   see  Keats'a   sonnet  on 
reading  his  worlc. 


172  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Keats  has  adopted  the  loose,  nerveless  versification  and 
the  Cockney  rhymes  of  the  poet  of  Rimini;  but  in  fair- 
ness to  that  gentleman  we  must  add  that  the  defects  of 
the  system  are  tenfold  more  conspicuous  in  his  disciple's 
work  than  in  his  own.  Mr.  Hunt  is  a  small  poet,  but  he 
is  a  clever  man.  Mr.  Keats  is  a  still  smaller  poet,  and  he 
is  only  a  boy  of  pretty  abilities,  which  he  has  done  every- 
thing in  his  power  to  spoil."  .  .  . 

And  now,  good-morrow  to  "the  Muses'  son  of  Prom- 
ise" ;  ^°  as  for  "the  feats  he  yet  may  do,"  as  we  do  not  pre- 
tend to  say,  like  himself,  "Muse  of  my  native  land  am  I 
inspired,"  ^^  we  shall  adhere  to  the  safe  old  rule  of  pauca 
verba.  We  venture  to  make  one  small  prophecy,  that  his 
bookseller  will  not  a  second  time  venture  fifty  pounds  upon 
anything  he  can  write.  It  is  a  better  and  a  wiser  thing 
to  be  a  starved  apothecary  than  a  starved  poet;  so  back 
to  the  shop,  Mr.  John,  back  to  "plasters,  pills,  and  oint- 
ment boxes,"  etc.  But,  for  heaven's  sake,  young  San- 
grado,*^  be  a  little  more  sparing  of  extenuatives  and 
soporifics  in  your  practice  than  you  have  been  in  your 
poetry. 

ON  THE  TRAGEDIES  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

considerbd  with  reference  to  their  fitness  for  stage 
representation 

Charles  Lamb 

[This  early  example  of  Lamb's  dramatic  criticism  appeared 
in  Leigh  Hunt's  journal,  The  Reflector,  in  1812.  The  paper 
opens  with  a  passage  on  Garrick's  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
and  a  denial  of  the  right  of  the  actor  to  a  position  of  honoiur 
comparable  to  that  of  tlie  dramatist.] 

...  It  may  seem  a  paradox,  but  I  cannot  help  being 
of  the  opinion  that  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  are  less  cal- 
culated for  performance  on  a  stage  than  those  of  almost 
any  other  dramatist  whatever.     Their  distinguishing  ei- 

*  In  the  omitted  passage  the  poem  is  outlined,  with  quotations. 

10  g^^  note  3 

"  From  Endvmion,  IV,  354. 

^A  quack  in  LeSage's  novel  Oil  Bias. 


LAMB  178 

cellence  is  a  reason  that  they  should  be  so;  there  is  so 
much  in  them  which  comes  not  under  the  province  of 
acting,  with  which  eye  and  tone  and  gesture  have  nothing 
to  do. 

The  glory  of  the  scenic  art  is  to  personate  passion,  and 
the  turns  of  passion;  and  the  more  coarse  and  palpable 
the  passion  is,  the  more  hold  upon  the  eyes  and  ears  of 
the  spectators  the  performer  obviously  possesses.  For  this 
reason  scolding  scenes,  scenes  where  two  persons  talk 
themselves  into  a  fit  of  fury,  and  then  in  a  surprising 
manner  talk  themselves  out  of  it  again,  have  always  been 
the  most  popular  upon  our  stage.  And  the  reason  is  plain, 
— ^because  the  spectators  are  here  most  palpably  appealed 
to;  they  are  the  proper  judges  in  this  war  of  words,  they 
are  the  legitimate  ring  that  should  be  formed  round  such 
^'intellectual  prize-fighters."  Talking  is  the  direct  object 
of  the  imitation  here.  But  in  all  the  best  dramas,  and 
in  Shakespeare  above  all,  how  obvious  it  is  that  the  form 
of  speaking,  whether  it  be  in  soliloquy  or  dialogue,  is 
only  a  medium — and  often  a  highly  artificial  one — for  put- 
ting the  reader  or  spectator  into  possession  of  that  knowl- 
edge of  the  inner  structure  and  workings  of  mind  in  a 
character,  which  he  could  otherwise  never  have  arrived 
at  in  that  form  of  composition  by  any  gift  short  of  in- 
tuitioA.  We  do  here  as  we  do  with  novels  written  in  the 
epistolary  form.  How  many  improprieties,  perfect  sole- 
cisms in  letter-writing,  do  we  put  up  with  in  Clarissa,^ 
and  other  books,  for  the  sake  of  the  delight  which  that 
form  upon  the  whole  gives  usl 

But  the  practice  of  stage  representation  reduces  every- 
thing to  a  controversy  of  elocution.  Every  character, 
from  the  boisterous  blasphemings  of  Bajazet  ^  to  the 
shrinking  timidity  of  womanhood,  must  play  the  orator. 
The  love  dialogues  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  those  silver-sweet 
sounds  of  lovers'  tongues  by  night ;  the  more  intimate  and 
sacred  sweetness  of  nuptial  colloquy  between  an  Othello 
or  a  Posthumus  with  their  married  wives ;  '  all  those  deli- 
cacies which  are  so  delightful  in  the  reading,  as  when 
we  read  of  those  youthful  dalliances  in  Paradise — 

•Richardson's   CUiritta  Harlowc   (1748). 

*  In  Marlowe's  tragedy  of  Tamhurlainc. 

»  See  Othello,  II,  I,  184  ff.,  and  CymbclinC:  I,  1,  92-123. 


174  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

A8  beaeem'd 
Fair  couple  link'd  in  happy  nuptial  league 
Alone;  * 

— by  the  inherent  fault  of  stage  representation,  how  are 
these  things  sullied  and  turned  from  their  very  nature 
by  being  exposed  to  a  large  assembly;  when  such  speeches 
as  Imogen  addresses  to  her  lord  come  drawling  out  of  the 
mouth  of  a  hired  actress,  whose  courtship,  though  nomi- 
nally addressed  to  the  personated  Posthumus,  is  mani- 
festly aimed  at  the  spectators,  who  are  to  judge  of  her 
endearments  and  her  returns  of  love! 

The  character  of  Hamlet  is  perhaps  that  by  which, 
since  the  days  of  Betterton,**  a  succession  of  popular  per- 
formers have  had  the  greatest  ambition  to  distinguish 
themselves.  The  length  of  the  part  may  be  one  of  their 
reasons.  But  for  the  character  itself,  we  find  it  in  a  play, 
and  therefore  we  judge  it  a  fit  subject  of  dramatic  repre- 
sentation. The  play  itself  abounds  in  maxims  and  reflec- 
tions beyond  any  other,  and  therefore  we  consider  it  as  a 
proper  vehicle  for  conveying  moral  instruction.  But 
Hamlet  himself — what  does  he  suffer  meanwhile  by  being 
dragged  forth  as  a  public  schoolmaster,  to  give  lectures 
to  the  crowd!  Why,  nine  parts  in  ten  of  what  Hamlet 
does  are  transactions  between  himself  and  his  moral-sense; 
they  are  the  effusions  of  his  solitary  musings,  which  he 
retires  to  holes  and  comers  and  the  most  sequestered 
parts  of  the  palace  to  pour  forth;  or  rather,  they  are  the 
silent  meditations  with  which  his  bosom  is  bursting,  re- 
duced to  words  for  the  sake  of  the  reader,  who  must  else 
remain  ignorant  of  what  is  passing  there.  These  pro- 
found sorrows,  these  light-and-noise-abhorring  rumina- 
tions, which  the  tongue  scarce  dares  utter  to  deaf  walls 
and  chambers,  how  can  they  be  represented  by  a  gesticu- 
lating actor,  who  comes  and  mouths  them  out  before  an 
audience,  making  four  hundred  people  his  confidants  at 
once?  I  say  not  that  it  is  the  fault  of  the  actor  so  to 
do;  he  must  pronounce  them  ore  rotundo;  he  must  ac- 
company them  with  his  eye;  he  must  insinuate  them  into 
his  auditory  by  some  trick  of  eye,  tone,  or  gesture,- 

«  Paradise  Lost,  iv,  338-40. 

*A  Shakespearean  actor  (died  1710). 


LAMB  175' 

he  fails.  He  must  be  thinking  all  the  while  of  his  ap- 
pearance, because  he  knows  that  all  the  while  the  spec- 
tators are  judging  of  it.  And  this  is  the  way  to  represent 
the  shy,  negligent,  retiring  Hamlet! 

It  is  true  that  there  is  no  other  mode  of  conveying  a 
vast  quantity  of  thought  and  feeling  to  a  great  portion 
of  the  audience,  who  otherwise  would  never  earn  it  for 
themselves  by  reading,  and  the  intellectual  acquisition 
gained  this  way  may,  for  aught  I  know,  be  inestimable; 
but  I  am  not  arguing  that  Hamlet  should  not  be  acted, 
but  how  much  Hamlet  is  made  another  thing  by  being 
acted.  I  have  heard  much  of  the  wonders  which  Garrick 
performed  in  this  part;  but  as  I  never  saw  him,  I  must 
have  leave  to  doubt  whether  the  representation  of  such  a 
character  came  within  the  province  of  his  art.  Those  who 
tell  me  of  him  speak  of  his  eye,  of  the  magic  of  his  eye, 
and  of  his  commanding  voice, — physical  properties,  vastly 
desirable  in  an  actor,  and  without  which  he  can  never 
insinuate  meaning  into  an  auditory, — ^but  what  have  they 
to  do  with  Hamlet?  what  have  they  to  do  with  intellect? 
In  fact,  the  things  aimed  at  in  theatrical  representation 
are  to  arrest  the  spectator's  eye  upon  the  form  and  the 
gesture,  and  so  to  gain  a  more  favorable  hearing  to  what 
is  spoken:  it  is  not  what  the  character  is,  but  how  he 
looks;  not  what  he  says,  but  how  he  speaks  it.  I  see  no 
reason  to  think  that  if  the  play  of  Hamlet  were  written 
over  again  by  some  such  writer  as  Banks  or  Lillo,*  retain- 
ing the  process  of  the  story,  but  totally  omitting  all  the 
poetry  of  it,  all  the  divine  features  of  Shakespeare,  his 
stupendous  intellect,  and  only  taking  care  to  give  us 
enough  of  passionate  dialogue,  which  Banks  or  Lillo  were 
never  at  a  loss  to  furnish, — I  see  not  how  the  effect  could 
be  much  different  upon  an  audience,  nor  how  the  actor 
has  it  in  his  power  to  represent  Shakespeare  to  us  dif- 
ferently from  his  representation  of  Banks  or  Lillo.  Ham- 
let would  still  be  a  youthful  accomplished  prince,  and 
must  be  gracefully  personated ;  he  might  be  puzzled  in  his 
mind,  wavering  in  his  conduct,  seemingly  cruel  to 
Ophelia;  he  might  see  a  ghost,  and  start  at  it,  and  ad- 

•  Banks  was  author  of  Virtue  Betrayed,  a  popular  tragedy  first 
produced  in  1692 ;  Lillo  of  The  London  Merchant,  or  Oeorge  Bam- 
well,  1731. 


176  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

dress  it  kindly  when  he  found  it  to  be  his  father;  all  this 
in  the  poorest  and  most  homely  language  of  the  servilest 
creeper  after  nature  that  ever  consulted  the  palate  of  an 
audience,  without  troubling  Shakespeare  for  the  matter: 
and  I  see  not  but  there  would  be  room  for  all  the  power 
which  an  actor  has  to  display  itself.  All  the  passions  and 
changes  of  passion  might  remain:  for  those  are  much 
less  difficult  to  write  or  act  than  is  thought;  it  is  a  trick 
easy  to  be  attained,  it  is  but  rising  or  falling  a  note  or 
two  in  the  voice,  a  whisper  with  a  significant  foreboding 
look  to  announce  its  approach;  and  so  contagious  the 
counterfeit  appearance  of  any  emotion  is,  that,  let  the 
words  be  what  they  will,  the  look  and  tone  shall  carry  it 
off  and  make  it  pass  for  deep  skill  in  the  passions. 

It  is  common  for  people  to  talk  of  Shakespeare's  plays 
being  so  natural;  that  everybody  can  understand  him. 
They  are  natural  indeed,  they  are  grounded  deep  in  na- 
ture, so  deep  that  the  depth  of  them  lies  out  of  the  reach 
of  most  of  us.  You  shall  hear  the  same  persons  say  that 
George  Barnwell  is  very  natural,  and  Othello  is  very  nat- 
ural, that  they  are  both  very  deep ;  and  to  them  they  are 
the  same  kind  of  thing.  At  the  one  they  sit  and  shed 
tears,  because  a  good  sort  of  young  man  is  tempted  by 
a  naughty  woman  to  commit  a  trifling  peccadillo,  the 
murder  of  an  uncle  or  so,  that  is  all,  and  so  comes  to  an 
untimely  end,  which  is  so  moving;  and  at  the  other,  be- 
cause a  blackamoor  in  a  fit  of  jealousy  kills  his  innocent 
white  wife:  and  the  odds  are  that  ninety-nine  out  of  a 
hundred  would  willingly  behold  the  same  catastrophe  hap- 
pen to  both  the  heroes,  and  have  thought  the  rope  more 
due  to  Othello  than  to  Barnwell.  For  of  the  texture  of 
Othello's  mind,  the  inward  construction  marvelously  laid 
open  with  all  its  strengths  and  weaknesses,  its  heroic  con- 
fidences and  its  human  misgivings,  its  agonies  of  hate 
springing  from  the  depths  of  love,  they  see  no  more  than 
the  spectators  at  a  cheaper  rate,  who  pay  their  pennies 
to  look  through  the  man's  telescope  in  Leicester  Fields, 
see  into  the  inward  plot  and  topography  of  the  moon. 
Some  dim  thing  or  other  they  see;  they  see  an  actor  per- 
sonating a  passion,  of  grief,  or  anger,  for  instance,  and 
they  recognize  it  as  a  copy  of  the  usual  external  effects 
of  such  passions,  or  at  least  as  being  true  to  thai  symhol 


LAMB  177 

of  the  emotion  which  passes  current  at  the  theater  for  it, 
for  it  is  often  no  more  than  that;  but  of  the  grounds  of 
the  passion,  its  correspondence  to  a  great  or  heroic  na- 
ture, which  is  the  only  worthy  object  of  tragedy, — that 
common  auditors  know  anything  of  this,  or  can  have  any 
such  notions  dinned  into  them  by  the  mere  strength  of 
an  actor's  lungs, — that  apprehensions  foreign  to  them 
should  be  thus  infused  into  them  by  storm,  I  can  neither 
believe,  nor  understand  how  it  can  be  possible. 

We  talk  of  Shakespeare's  admirable  observation  of  life, 
when  we  should  feel  that,  not  from  a  petty  inquisition  into 
those  cheap  and  every-day  characters  which  surrounded 
him,  as  they  surround  us,  but  from  his  own  mind,  which 
was — to  borrow  a  phrase  of  Ben  Jonson's — the  very 
"sphere  of  humanity,"  ^  he  fetched  those  images  of  virtue 
and  of  knowledge,  of  which  every  one  of  us,  recognizing 
a  part,  think  we  comprehend  in  our  natures  the  whole ;  and 
oftentimes  mistake  the  powers  which  he  positively  cre- 
ates in  us  for  nothing  more  than  indigenous  faculties  of 
our  own  minds,  which  only  waited  the  application  of  cor- 
responding virtues  in  him  to  return  a  full  and  clear  echo 
of  the  same. 

To  return  to  Hamlet.  Among  the  distinguishing  fea- 
tures of  that  wonderful  character,  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting (yet  painful)  is  that  soreness  of  mind  which  makes 
him  treat  the  intrusions  of  Polonius  with  harshness,  and 
that  asperity  which  he  puts  on  in  his  interviews  with 
Ophelia.  These  tokens  of  an  unhinged  mind  (if  they  be 
not  mixed  in  the  latter  case  with  a  profound  artifice  of 
love,  to  alienate  Ophelia  by  affected  discourtesies,  so  to 
prepare  her  mind  for  the  breaking  off  of  that  loving  in- 
tercourse which  can  no  longer  find  a  place  amidst  business 
so  serious  as  that  which  he  has  to  do)  are  parts  of  his 
character,  which  to  reconcile  with  our  admiration  of 
Hamlet,  the  most  patient  consideration  of  his  situation  is 
no  more  than  necessary;  they  are  what  we  forgive  after- 
wards, and  explain  by  the  whole  of  his  character,  but  at 
the  time  they  are  harsh  and  unpleasant.  Yet  such  is  the 
actor's  necessity  of  giving  strong  blows  to  the  audience, 
that  I  have  never  seen  a  player  in  this  character  who 

^  See  the  "Pindaric  Ode  on  the  Death  of  Sir  H.  Morison." 


178  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

did  not  exaggerate  and  strain  to  the  utmost  these  ambigu- 
ous features, — these  temporary  deformities  in  the  char- 
acter. They  make  him  express  a  vulgar  scorn  at  Polo- 
nius  which  utterly  degrades  his  gentility,  and  which  no 
explanation  can  render  palatable;  they  make  him  show 
contempt  and  curl  up  the  nose  at  Ophelia's  father, — 
contempt  in  its  very  grossest  and  most  hateful  form;  but 
they  get  applause  by  it, — it  is  natural,  people  say;  that 
is,  the  words  are  scornful,  and  the  actor  expresses  scorn, 
and  that  they  can  judge  of';  but  why  so  much  scorn,  and 
of  that  sort,  they  never  think  of  asking. 

So  to  Ophelia.  All  the  Hamlets  that  I  have  ever  seen 
rant  and  rave  at  her  as  if  she  had  committed  some  great 
crime,  and  the  audience  are  highly  pleased,  because  the 
words  of  the  part  are  satirical,  and  they  are  enforced  by 
the  strongest  expression  of  satirical  indignation  of  which 
the  face  and  voice  are  capable.  But  then,  whether  Ham- 
let is  likely  to  have  put  on  such  brutal  appearances  to 
a  lady  whom  he  loved  so  dearly,  is  never  thought  on.  The 
truth  is  that  in  all  such  deep  affections  as  had  subsisted 
between  Hamlet  and  Ophelia,  there  is  a  stock  of  super- 
erogatory love  (if  I  may  venture  to  use  the  expression), 
which  in  any  great  grief  of  heart,  especially  where  that 
which  preys  upon  the  mind  cannot  be  communicated, 
confers  a  kind  of  indulgence  upon  the  grieved  party  to 
express  itself,  even  to  its  heart's  dearest  object,  in  the 
language  of  a  temporary  alienation;  but  it  is  not  aliena- 
tion,— it  is  a  distraction  purely,  and  so  it  always  makes 
itself  to  be  felt  by  that  object;  it  is  not  anger,  but  grief 
assuming  the  appearance  of  anger, — love  awkwardly  coun- 
terfeiting hate,  as  sweet  countenances  when  they  try  to 
frown;  but  such  sternness  and  fierce  disgust  as  Hamlet 
is  made  to  show  is  no  counterfeit,  but  the  real  face  of 
absolute  aversion — of  irreconcilable  alienation.  It  may  be 
said  he  puts  on  the  madman ;  but  then  he  should  only  so 
far  put  on  this  counterfeit  lunacy  as  his  own  real  dis- 
traction will  give  him  leave, — ^that  is,  incompletely,  im- 
perfectly, not  in  that  confirmed,  practiced  way,  like  a 
master  of  his  art,  or  as  Dame  Quickly  would  say,  "like 
one  of  those  harlotry  players."  ^ 

•1  Eenry  IT,  II,  It,  48T. 


LAMB  179 

I  mean  no  disrespect  to'  any  actor,  but  the  sort  of  pleas- 
ure which  Shakespeare's  plays  give  in  the  acting  seems 
to  me  not  at  all  to  differ  from  that  which  the  audience 
receive  from  those  of  other  writers,  and,  they  being  in 
themselves  essentially  so  different  from  all  others,  I  must 
conclude  that  there  is  something  in  the  nature  of  acting 
which  levels  all  distinctions.  And  in  fact,  who  does  not 
speak  indifferently  of  The  Gamester^  and  of  Macbeth  as 
fine  stage  performances,  and  praise  the  Mrs.  Beverley  ^°  in 
the  same  way  as  the  Lady  Macbeth  of  Mrs.  S  [iddons]  ? 
Belvidera,  and  Calista,  and  Isabella,  and  Euphrasia,^  ^  are 
they  less  liked  than  Imogen,  or  than  Juliet,  or  than  Des- 
demona?  Are  they  not  spoken  of  and  remembered  in 
the  same  way?  Is  not  the  female  performer  as  great  (as 
they  call  it)  in  one  as  in  the  other?  Did  not  Garrick 
shine,  and  was  he  not  ambitious  of  shining,  in  every 
drawling  tragedy  that  his  wretched  day  produced, — the 
productions  of  the  Hills  and  the  Murphys  and  the 
Browns,^  2 — ^n^  shall  he  have  that  honor  to  dwell  in  our 
minds  forever  as  an  inseparable  concomitant  with  Shake- 
speare ?  A  kindred  mind  I  Oh  who  can  read  that  affecting 
sonnet  of  Shakespeare  which  alludes  to  his  profession  as 
a  player, — 

Oh  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 

The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds. 

That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 

Than  public  means  which  public  custom  breeds — 

Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand; 

And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 

To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand — " 

or  that  other  confession, — 

Alas!  'tis  true,  I  have  gone  here  and  there. 

And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 

Gor'd  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most  dear—** 

'A  dompstlc  tragedy  by  Edward  Moore  (1753). 

"The  heroine  of  The  Oameater. 

"  Belvidera  in  Otway's  Venice  Preaervcd ;  Caliata  In  Rowe's  The 
Fair  Penitent;  Isabella  in  Southerne's  The  Fatal  Marriage; 
Euphrasia  In   Murphy's  The  Grecian  Daughter. 

"Aaron  Hill  (1685-1750).  Arthur  Murphv  (1727-1805),  and 
John  Brown    (1715-1766),   minor  but  successful  dramatists. 

»»  Sonnet  111. 

>«  Sonnet  110. 


180  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

who  can  read  these  instances  of  jealous  self -watchfulness 
in  our  sweet  Shakespeare,  and  dream  of  any  congeniality 
between  him  and  one  that,  by  every  tradition  of  him,  ap- 
pears to  have  been  as  mere  a  player  as  ever  existed;  to 
have  had  his  mind  tainted  with  the  lowest  players'  vices, 
—envy  and  jealousy,  and  miserable  cravings  after  ap- 
plause; one  who  in  the  exercise  of  his  profession  was  jeal- 
ous even  of  the  women  performers  that  stood  in  his  way ; 
a  manager  full  of  managerial  tricks  and  stratagems  and 
finesse:  that  any  resemblance  should  be  dreamed  of  be- 
tween him  and  Shakespeare, — Shakespeare  who,  in  the 
plenitude  and  consciousness  of  his  own  powers,  could, 
with  that  noble  modesty  which  we  can  neither  imitate  nor 
appreciate,  express  himself  thus  of  his  own  sense  of  his 
own  defects: 

Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featur'd  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possest; 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope." 

I  am  almost  disposed  to  deny  to  Garrick  the  merit  of 
being  an  admirer  of  Shakespeare.  A  true  lover  of  his 
excellences  he  certainly  was  not;  for  would  any  true  lover 
of  them  have  admitted  into  his  matchless  scenes  such 
ribald  trash  as  Tate  and  Cibber,^^  and  the  rest  of  ihem, 
that 

With  their  darkness  durst  affront  his  light, 

have  foisted  into  the  acting  plays  of  Shakespeare!  I 
believe  it  impossible  that  he  could  have  had  a  proper  rev- 
erence for  Shakespeare,  and  have  condescended  to  go 
through  that  interpolated  scene  in  Richard  the  Third,  in 
which  Richard  tries  to  break  his  wife's  heart  by  telling 
her  he  loves  another  woman,  and  says,  "if  she  survive  this 
she  is  immortal."  Yet  I  doubt  not  he  delivered  this  vul- 
gar stuflF  with  as  much  anxiety  of  emphasis  as  any  of 
the  genuine  parts;  and  for  acting  it  is  as  well  calculated 
as  any.  But  we  have  seen  the  part  of  Richard  lately 
produce  great  fame  to  an  actor  by  his  manner  of  play- 

»•  Sonnet  29. 

••Dramatists  who,  in  the  late  17th  and  early  18th  centuries, 
rewrote  plays  of  Shakespeare's,  Tate's  version  of  King  Lear,  and 
Gibber's  of  Richard  III,  held  the  stage  well  into  the  19th  century. 


LAMB  181 

ing  it,  and  it  lets  us  into  the  secret  of  acting,  and  of 
popular  judgments  of  Shakespeare  derived  from  acting. 
Not  one  of  the  spectators  who  have  witnessed  Mr. 
C[ooke]'s  ^^  exertions  in  that  part  but  has  come  away  with 
a  proper  conviction  that  Richard  is  a  very  wicked  man, 
and  kills  little  children  in  their  beds,  with  something  like 
the  pleasure  which  the  giants  and  ogres  in  children's 
books  are  represented  to  have  taken  in  that  practice; 
moreover,  that  he  is  very  close  and  shrewd,  and  devilish 
cunning,  for  you  could  see  that  by  his  eye.  But  is,  in 
fact,  this  the  impression  we  have  in  reading  the  Richard 
of  Shakespeare?  Do  we  feel  anything  like  disgust,  as 
we  do  at  that  butcher-like  representation  of  him  that 
passes  for  him  on  the  stage?  A  horror  at  his  crimes 
blends  with  the  effect  that  we  feel;  but  how  is  it  quali- 
fied, how  is  it  carried  off,  by  the  rich  intellect  which  he 
displays, — his  resources,  his  wit,  his  buoyant  spirits,  his 
vast  knowledge  and  insight  into  characters,  the  poetry 
of  his  part, — not  an  atom  of  all  which  is  made  perceiv- 
able in  Mr.  C[ooke]'8  way  of  acting  it.  Nothing  but  his 
crimes,  his  actions,  is  visible;  they  are  prominent  and 
staring.  The  murderer  stands  out;  but  where  is  the  lofty 
genius,  the  man  of  vast  capacity, — the  profound,  the 
witty,  accomplished  Richard? 

The  truth  is,  the  characters  of  Shakespeare  are  so  much 
the  objects  of  meditation  rather  than  of  interest  or  curi- 
osity as  to  their  actions,  that  while  we  are  reading  any 
of  his  great  criminal  characters — Macbeth,  Richard,  even 
lago — we  think  not  so  much  of  the  crimes  which  they 
commit  as  of  the  ambition,  the  aspiring  spirit,  the  intel- 
lectual activity,  which  prompts  them  to  overleap  these 
moral  fences.  Barnwell  ^'  is  a  wretched  murderer ;  there  is 
a  certain  fitness  between  his  neck  and  the  rope;  he  is  the 
legitimate  heir  to  the  gallows;  nobody  who  thinks  at  all 
can  think  of  any  alleviating  circumstances  in  his  case  to 
make  him  a  fit  object  of  mercy.  Or,  to  take  an  instance 
from  the  higher  tragedy,  what  else  but  a  mere  assassin 
is  Glenalvon !  ^"  Do  we  think  of  anything  but  of  the  crime 
which  he  commits,  and  the  rack  which  he  deserves  ?    That 

"George  Frederick  Cooke  (1756-1811). 

»»  See  note  6. 

'*  In  Home's  tragedy  of  Douglat. 


182  CRITICAL-  ESSAYS 

is  all  which  we  really  think  about  him.  Whereas  in  cor- 
responding characters  in  Shakespeare  so  little  do  the  ac- 
tions comparatively  affect  us,  that  while  the  impulses,  the 
inner  mind  in  all  its  perverted  greatness,  solely  seems 
real  and  is  exclusively  attended  to,  the  crime  is  compara- 
tively nothing.  But  when  we  see  these  things  represented, 
the  acts  which  they  do  are  comparatively  everything,  their 
impulses  nothing.  The  state  of  sublime  emotion  into 
which  we  are  elevated  by  those  images  of  night  and  hor- 
ror which  Macbeth  is  made  to  utter,  that  solemn  prelude 
with  which  he  entertains  the  time  till  the  bell  shall  strike 
which  is  to  call  him  to  murder  Duncan, — when  we  no 
longer  read  it  in  a  book,  when  we  have  given  up  that  van- 
tage-ground of  abstraction  which  reading  possesses  over 
seeing,  and  come  to  see  a  man  in  his  bodily  shape  before 
our  eyes  actually  preparing  to  commit  a  murder,  if  the 
acting  be  true  and  impressive,  as  I  have  witnessed  it  in 
Mr.  K[emble'8]  performance  of  that  part,  the  painful 
anxiety  about  the  act,  the  natural  longing  to  prevent  it 
while  it  yet  seems  unperpetrated,  the  too  close-pressing 
semblance  of  reality,  give  a  pain  and  an  uneasiness  which 
totally  destroy  all  the  delight  which  the  words  in  the  book 
convey,  where  the  deed  doing  never  presses  upon  us  with 
the  painful  sense  of  presence:  it  rather  seems  to  belong 
to  history, — to  something  past  and  inevitable,  if  it  has 
anything  to  do  with  time  at  all.  The  sublime  images,  the 
poetry  alone,  is  that  which  is  present  to  our  minds  in  the 
reading. 

So  to  see  Lear  acted, — ^to  see  an  old  man  tottering  about 
the  stage  with  a  walking-stick,  turned  oul  of  doors  by 
his  daughters  in  a  rainy  night,  has  nothing  in  it  but  what 
is  painful  and  disgusting.  We  want  to  take  him  into 
shelter  and  relieve  him.  That  is  all  the  feeling  which 
the  acting  of  Lear  ever  produced  in  me.  But  the  Lear  of 
Shakespeare  cannot  be  acted.  The  contemptible  machin- 
ery by  which  they  mimic  the  storm  which  he  goes  out  in, 
is  not  more  inadequate  to  represent  the  horrors  of  the 
real  elements,  than  any  actor  can  be  to  represent  Lear: 
they  might  more  easily  propose  to  personate  the  Satan 
of  Milton  upon  a  stage,  or  one  of  Michael  Angelo's  terrible 
figures.  The  greatness  of  Lear  is  not  in  corporal  dimen- 
sion, but  in  intellectual;  the  explosions  of  his  passion  are 


LAMB  183 

terrible  as  a  volcano;  they  are  storms  turning  up  and 
disclosing  to  the  bottom  that  sea,  his  mind,  with  all  its 
vast  riches.  It  is  his  mind  which  is  laid  bare.  This 
case  of  flesh  and  blood  seems  too  insignificant  to  be 
thought  on, — even  as  he  himself  neglects  it.  On  the  stage 
we  see  nothing  but  corporal  infirmities  and  weakness,  the 
impotence  of  rage;  while  we  read  it,  we  see  not  Lear,  but 
we  are  Lear:  we  are  in  his  mind,  we  are  sustained  by  a 
grandeur  which  baffles  the  malice  of  daughters  and 
storms.  In  the  aberrations  of  his  reason  we  discover  a 
mighty  irregular  power  of  reasoning,  immethodized  from 
the  ordinary  purposes  of  life,  but  exerting  its  powers,  as 
the  wind  blows  where  it  listeth,  at  will  upon  the  corrup- 
tions and  abuses  of  mankind.  What  have  looks,  or  tones, 
to  do  with  that  sublime  identification  of  his  age  with  that 
of  the  heavens  themselves,  when,  in  his  reproaches  to 
them  for  conniving  at  the  injustice  of  his  children,  he 
reminds  them  that  "they  themselves  are  old"  ?  What  ges- 
ture shall  we  appropriate  to  this  ?  What  has  the  voice  or 
the  eye  to  do  with  such  things?  But  the  play  is  beyond 
all  art,  as  the  tamperings  with  it  show ;  it  is  too  hard  and 
stony;  it  must  have  love-scenes,  and  a  happy  ending.  It 
is  not  enough  that  Cordelia  is  a  daughter :  she  must  shine 
as  a  lover  too.  Tate  has  put  his  hook  in  the  nostrils  of 
this  leviathan,  for  Garrick  and  his  followers,  the  show- 
men of  the  scene,  to  draw  the  mighty  beast  about  more 
easily.  A  happy  ending ! — as  if  the  living  martyrdom  that 
Lear  had  gone  through,  the  flaying  of  his  feelings  alive, 
did  not  make  a  fair  dismissal  from  the  stage  of  life  the 
only  decorous  thing  for  him.  If  he  is  to  live  and  be  happy 
after,  if  he  could  sustain  this  world's  burden  after,  why 
all  this  pudder  and  preparation, — why  torment  us  with 
all  this  unnecessary  sympathy?  As  if  the  childish  pleas- 
ure of  getting  his  gilt  robes  and  sceptre  again  could  tempt 
him  to  act  over  again  his  misused  station  I — as  if,  at  his 
years  and  with  his  experience,  anything  was  left  but  to 
die  I 

Lear  is  essentially  impossible  to  be  represented  on  a 
stage.  But  how  many  dramatic  personages  are  there  in 
Shakespeare  which,  though  more  tractable  and  feasible 
(if  I  may  so  speak)  than  Lear,  yet  from  some  circum- 
stance, sopie  adjunct  to  their  character,  are  improper  to 


184  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

be  shown  to  our  bodily  eye  1  Othello,  for  instance.  Noth- 
ing can  be  more  soothing,  more  flattering  to  the  nobler 
parts  of  our  natures,  than  to  read  of  a  young  Venetian 
lady  of  highest  extraction,  through  the  force  of  love  and 
from  a  sense  of  merit  in  him  whom  she  loved,  laying  aside 
every  consideration  of  kindred  and  country  and  color,  and 
wedding  with  a  "coal-black  Moor"  (for  such  he  is  repre- 
sented, in  the  imperfect  state  of  knowledge  respecting 
foreign  countries  in  those  days,  compared  with  our  own, 
or  in  compliance  with  popular  notions,  though  the  Moors 
are  now  well  enough  known  to  be  by  many  shades  less  un- 
worthy of  a  white  woman's  fancy) ; — it  is  the  perfect  tri- 
umph of  virtue  over  accidents,  of  the  imagination  over 
the  senses.  She  sees  Othello's  color  in  his  mind.^"  But 
upon  the  stage,  when  the  imagination  is  no  longer  the 
ruling  faculty,  but  we  are  left  to  our  poor  unassisted 
senses,  I  appeal  to  every  one  that  has  seen  Othello  played, 
whether  he  did  not,  on  the  contrary,  sink  Othello's  mind  in 
his  color, — whether  he  did  not  find  something  extremely 
revolting  in  the  courtship  and  wedded  caresses  of  Othello 
and  Desdemona,  and  whether  the  actual  sight  of  the 
thing  did  not  overweigh  all  that  beautiful  compromise 
which  we  make  in  reading.  And  the  reason  it  should  do 
so  is  obvious, — because  there  is  just  so  much  reality  pre- 
sented to  our  senses  as  to  give  a  perception  of  disagree- 
ment, with  not  enough  of  belief  in  the  internal  motives 
— all  that  which  is  unseen — to  overpower  and  reconcile 
the  first  and  obvious  prejudices.*^  What  we  see  upon  a 
stage  is  body  and  bodily  action;  what  we  are  conscious 
of  in  reading  is  almost  exclusively  the  mind  and  its  move- 
ments; and  this  I  think  may  sufficiently  account  for  the 
very  different  sort  of  delight  with  which  the  same  play  so 
often  affects  us  in  the  reading  and  the  seeing. 

"See  Othello,  I,  ill,  253. 

*'  The  error  of  supposing  that,  because  Othello's  color  does  not 
offend  us  in  the  reading,  it  should  also  not  offend  us  in  the  seeing, 
is  Just  such  a  fallacy  as  supposing  that  an  Adam  and  Eve  in  a 
picture  shall  affect  us  Just  as  they  do  in  the  poem.  But  in  the 
poem  we  for  a  while  have  Paradisaical  senses  given  us,  which 
vanish  when  we  see  a  man  and  his  wife  without  clothes  in  the  pic- 
ture. The  painters  themselves  feel  this,  as  is  apparent  by  the 
awkward  shifts  they  have  recourse  to,  to  make  them  look  not  quite 
naked, — by  a  sort  of  prophetic  anachronism  antedating  the  inven- 
tion of  fig-leaves.  So  in  the  reading  of  the  play  we  see  with 
Desdemona's  eyes ;  In  the  seeing  of  it  we  are  forced  to  look  with 
our  own.     [Lamb's  note.] 


LAMB  185 

It  requires  little  reflection  to  perceive  that,  if  those 
characters  in  Shakespeare  which  are  within  the  precincts 
of  nature  have  yet  something  in  them  which  appeals  too 
exclusively  to  the  imagination  to  admit  of  their  being 
made  objects  to  the  senses  without  suffering  a  change 
and  a  diminution, — that  still  stronger  the  objection  must 
lie  against  representing  another  line  of  characters,  which 
Shakespeare  has  introduced  to  give  a  wildness  and  a  su- 
pernatural elevation  to  his  scenes,  as  if  to  remove  them 
still  farther  from  that  assimilation  to  common  life  in 
which  their  excellence  is  vulgarly  supposed  to  consist. 
When  we  read  the  incantations  of  those  terrible  beings, 
the  Witches  in  Macbeth,  though  some  of  the  ingredients 
of  their  hellish  composition  savor  of  the  grotesque,  yet 
is  the  effect  upon  us  other  than  the  most  serious  and 
appalling  that  can  be  imagined?  Do  we  not  feel  spell- 
bound as  Macbeth  was?  Can  any  mirth  accompany  a 
sense  of  their  presence?  We  might  as  well  laugh  under 
a  consciousness  of  the  principle  of  Evil  himself  being 
truly  and  really  present  with  us.  But  attempt  to  bring 
these  beings  on  to  a  stage,  and  you  turn  them  instantly 
into  so  many  old  women,  that  men  and  children  are  to 
laugh  at.  Contrary  to  the  old  saying  that  "seeing  is  be- 
lieving," the  sight  actually  destroys  the  faith ;  and  the 
mirth  in  which  we  indulge  at  their  expense,  when  we  see 
these  creatures  upon  a  stage,  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  in- 
demnification which  we  make  to  ourselves  for  the  terror 
which  they  put  us  in  when  reading  made  them  an  object 
of  belief, — when  we  surrendered  up  our  reason  to  the  poet, 
as  children  to  their  nurses  and  their  elders;  and  we  laugh 
at  our  fears,  as  children  who  thought  they  saw  something 
in  the  dark  triumph  when  the  bringing  in  of  a  candle 
discovers  the  vanity  of  their  fears.  For  this  exposure 
of  supernatural  agents  upon  a  stage  is  truly  bringing  in 
a  candle  to  expose  their  own  delusiveness.  It  is  the  soli- 
tary taper  and  the  book  that  generates  a  faith  in  these 
terrors :  a  ghost  by  chandelier  light,  and  in  good  company, 
deceives  no  spectators, — a  ghost  that  can  be  measured  by 
the  eye,  and  his  human  dimensions  made  out  at  leisure. 
The  sight  of  a  well-lighted  house,  and  a  well-dressed  audi- 
ence, shall  arm  the  most  nervous  child  against  any  appre- 
hensions: as  Tom  Brown  says  of  the  impenetrable  skin 


t 


186  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

of  Achilles  with  his  impenetrable  armor  over  it,  "Bully 
Dawson  would  have  fought  the  devil  with  such  advan- 
tages." 

Much  has  been  said,  and  deservedly,  in  reprobation  of 
the  vile  mixture  which  Dry  den  has  thrown  into  The  Tern- 
pest;  22  doubtless  without  some  such  vicious  alloy,  the  im- 
pure ears  of  that  age  would  never  have  sat  out  to  hear 
so  much  innocence  of  love  as  is  contained  in  the  sweet 
courtship  of  Ferdinand  and  Miranda.  But  is  The  Tem- 
pest of  Shakespeare  at  all  a  fit  subject  for  stage  represen- 
tation? It  is  one  thing  to  read  of  an  enchanter,  and  to 
believe  the  wondrous  tale  while  we  are  reading  it;  but 
to  have  a  conjurer  brought  before  us  in  his  conjuring- 
gown,  with  his  spirits  about  him,  which  none  but  himself 
and  some  hundred  of  favored  spectators  before  the  cur- 
tain are  supposed  to  see,  involves  such  a  quantity  of  the 
hateful  incredible  that  all  our  reverence  for  the  author 
cannot  hinder  us  from  perceiving  such  gross  attempts 
upon  the  senses  to  be  in  the  highest  degree  childish  and 
inefficient.  Spirits  and  fairies  cannot  be  represented; 
they  cannot  even  be  painted;  they  can  only  be  believed. 
But  the  elaborate  and  anxious  provision  of  scenery,  which 
the  luxury  of  the  age  demands,  in  these  cases  works  a 
quite  contrary  effect  to  what  is  intended.  That  which  in 
comedy,  or  plays  of  familiar  life,  adds  so  much  to  the  life 
of  the  imitation,  in  plays  which  appeal  to  the  higher  fac- 
ulties positively  destroys  the  illusion  which  it  is  intro- 
duced to  aid.  A  parlor  or  a  drawing-room — a  library 
opening  into  a  garden — a  garden  with  an  alcove  in  it — 
a  street,  or  the  piazza  of  Covent  Garden,  does  well  enough 
in  a  scene;  we  are  content  to  give  as  much  credit  to  it  as 
it  demands,  or  rather,  we  think  little  about  it, — it  is 
little  more  than  reading  at  the  top  of  a  page,  "Scene,  a 
garden" ;  we  do  not  imagine  ourselves  there,  but  we  read- 
ily admit  the  imitation  of  familiar  objects.  But  to  think 
by  the  help  of  painted  trees  and  caverns,  which  we  know 
to  be  painted,  to  transport  our  minds  to  Prospero  and  his 
island  and  his  lonely  cell,^*  or  by  the  aid  of  a  fiddle  dex- 

^'An  alteration  of  Shakespeare's  play,  made  by  Dryden  and 
Davenant  In  1667. 

"  It  will  be  said  these  things  are  done  in  pictures.  But  pictures 
and  scenes  are  very  different  things.     Painting  is  a  world  of  itself, 


LAMB  187 

terously  thrown  in,  in  the  interval  of  speaking,  to  make 
118  believe  that  we  hear  those  supernatural  noises  of  which 
the  isle  was  full, — the  Orrery  Lecturer  at  the  Haymarket 
might  as  well  hope,  by  his  musical  glasses  cleverly  sta- 
tioned out  of  sight  behind  his  apparatus,  to  make  us  be- 
lieve that  we  do  indeed  hear  the  crystal  spheres  ring  out 
that  chime  which,  if  it  were  to  enwrap  our  fancy  long, 
Milton  thinks, 

Time  would  run  back  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold. 

And  speckled  Vanity 

Would   sicken   soon   and  die, 

And  leprous  sin  would  melt  from  earthly  mould; 

Yea,   Hell   itself  would   pass  away, 

And  leave  its  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day. 

The  garden  of  Eden,  with  our  first  parents  in  it,  is  not 
more  impossible  to  be  shown  on  a  stage  than  the  En- 
chanted Isle,  with  its  no  less  interesting  and  innocent 
first  settlers. 

The  subject  of  scenery  is  closely  connected  with  that 
of  the  dresses,  which  are  so  anxiously  attended  to  on  our 
stage.  I  remember  the  last  time  I  saw  Macbeth  played, 
the  discrepancy  I  felt  at  the  changes  of  garment  which 
he  varied,  the  shiftings  and  reshiftings,  like  a  Romish 
priest  at  mass.  The  luxury  of  stage  improvements,  and 
the  importunity  of  the  public  eye,  require  this.  The 
coronation  robe  of  the  Scottish  monarch  was  fairly  a 
counterpart  to  that  which  our  King  wears  when  he  goes 
to  the  Parliament  House,  just  so  full  and  cumbersome, 
and  set  out  with  ermine  and  pearls.  And  if  things  must 
be  represented,  I  see  not  what  to  find  fault  with  in  this. 
But  in  reading,  what  robe  are  we  conscious  of  ?  Some  dim 
images  of  royalty — a  crown  and  sceptre — may  float  before 
our  eyes;  but  who  shall  describe  the  fashion  of  it?  Do 
we  see  in  our  mind's  eye  what  Webb  or  any  other  robe- 
maker  could  pattern?  This  is  the  inevitable  consequence 
of  imitating  everything,  to  make  all  things  natural. 
Whereas  the  reading  of  a  tragedy  is  a  fine  abstraction.  It 
presents  to  the  fancy  just  so  much  of  external  appear- 
but  In  scene-painting  there  is  the  attempt  to  deceive ;  and  there 
Is  the  discordancy,  never  to  be  got  over,  between  painted  scenes 
and  real  people.     [Lamb's  note.] 


188  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

ances  as  to  make  us  feel  that  we  are  among  flesh  and 
blood,  while  by  far  the  greater  and  better  part  of  our 
imagination  is  employed  upon  the  thoughts  and  internal 
machinery  of  the  character.  But  in  acting,  scenery,  dress, 
the  most  contemptible  things,  call  upon  us  to  judge  of  their 
naturalness. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  no  bad  similitude  to  liken  the 
pleasure  which  we  take  in  seeing  one  of  these  fine  plays 
acted,  compared  with  that  quiet  delight  which  we  find  in 
the  reading  of  it,  to  the  different  feelings  with  which  a 
reviewer  and  a  man  that  is  not  a  reviewer  reads  a  fine 
poem.  The  accursed  critical  habit, — the  being  called 
upon  to  judge  and  pronounce,  must  make  it  quite  a  dif- 
ferent thing  to  the  former.  In  seeing  these  plays  acted, 
we  are  affected  just  as  judges.  When  Hamlet  compares 
the  two  pictures  of  Gertrude's  first  and  second  husband,^* 
who  wants  to  see  the  picture?  But  in  the  acting,  a 
miniature  must  be  lugged  out,  which  we  know  not  to  be 
the  picture,  but  only  to  show  how  finely  a  miniature  may 
be  represented.  This  showing  of  everything  levels  all 
things:  it  makes  tricks,  bows,  and  curtesies  of  impor- 
tance. Mrs.  S[iddons]  never  got  more  fame  by  anything 
than  by  the  manner  in  which  she  dismisses  the  guests  in 
the  banquet  scene  in  Macbeth:  it  is  as  much  remembered 
as  any  of  her  thrilling  tones  or  impressive  looks.  But 
does  such  a  trifle  as  this  enter  into  the  imaginations  of 
the  readers  of  that  wild  and  wonderful  scene?  Does  not 
the  mind  dismiss  the  feasters  as  rapidly  as  it  can?  Does 
it  care  about  the  gracefulness  of  the  doing  it?  But  by 
acting,  and  judging  of  acting,  all  these  non-essentials  are 
raised  into  an  importance  injurious  to  the  main  interest 
of  the  play. 

I  have  confined  my  observations  to  the  tragic  parts  of 
Shakespeare.  It  would  be  no  very  diflScult  task  to  extend 
the  inquiry  to  his  comedies,  and  to  show  why  Falstaff, 
Shallow,  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  and  the  rest,  are  equally  in- 
compatible with  stage  representation.  The  length  to 
which  this  essay  has  run  will  make  it,  I  am  afraid,  suffi- 
ciently distasteful  to  the  amateurs  of  the  theater,  with- 
out going  any  deeper  into  the  subject  at  present. 

'•Hamlet,  III,  It,  53. 


LAMB  189 


lAGO  AND  MALVOLIO 
Charles  Lamb 

[From  the  essay  "On  Some  of  the  Old  Actors,"  originally 
published  in  the  London  Magazine  for  February,  1822.] 

Of  all  the  actors  who  flourished  in  my  time — a  mel- 
ancholy phrase  if  taken  aright,  reader — Bensley  had  most 
of  the  swell  of  soul,  was  greatest  in  the  delivery  of  heroic 
conceptions,  the  emotions  consequent  upon  the  present- 
ment of  a  great  idea  to  the  fancy.  He  had  the  true 
poetical  enthusiasm — the  rarest  faculty  among  players. 
None  that  I  remember  possessed  even  a  portion  of  that 
fine  madness  which  he  threw  out  in  Hotspur's  famous 
rant  about  glory,^  or  the  transports  of  the  Venetian  in- 
cendiary 2  at  the  vision  of  the  fired  city.  His  voice  had 
the  dissonance  and  at  times  the  inspiriting  efEect  of  the 
trumpet.  His  gait  was  uncouth  and  stiff,  but  no  way 
embarrassed  by  affectation;  and  the  thoroughbred  gen- 
tleman was  uppermost  in  every  movement.  He  seized 
the  moment  of  passion  with  the  greatest  truth;  like  q 
faithful  clock,  never  striking  before  the  time;  never  an« 
ticipating,  or  leading  you  to  anticipate.  He  was  totally 
destitute  of  trick  and  artifice.  He  seemed  come  upov. 
the  stage  to  do  the  poet's  message  simply,  and  he  did  it 
with  as  genuine  fidelity  as  the  nuncios  in  Homer  de- 
liver the  errands  of  the  gods.  He  let  the  passion  or  the 
sentiment  do  its  own  work  without  prop  or  bolstering. 
He  would  have  scorned  to  mountebank  it,  and  betrayed 
none  of  that  cleverness  which  is  the  bane  of  serious  act- 
ing. For  this  reason,  his  lago  was  the  only  endurable 
one  which  I  remember  to  have  seen.  No  spectator  from 
his  action  could  divine  more  of  his  artifice  than  Othello 
was  supposed  to  do.  His  confessions  in  soliloquy  alone 
put  you  in  possession  of  the  mystery.  There  were  no 
by-intimations  to  make  the  audience  fancy  their  own  dis- 
cernment so  much  greater  than  that  of  the  Moor — who 

>i  Henrv  IV,  I.  Hi,  201-07. 

*  Pierre,  In  Otway'8  Venice  Preserved,  II,  ilL 


190  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

commonly  stands  like  a  great  helpless  mark  set  up  for 
mine  Ancient,  and  a  quantity  of  barren  spectators,  to  shoot 
their  bolts  at.  The  lago  of  Bensley  did  not  go  to  work 
so  grossly.  There  was  a  triumphant  tone  about  the  char- 
acter, natural  to  a  general  consciousness  of  power;  but 
none  of  that  petty  vanity  which  chuckles  and  cannot  con- 
tain itself  upon  any  little  successful  stroke  of  its  knavery 
— as  is  common  with  your  small  villains  and  green  pro- 
bationers in  mischief.  It  did  not  clap  or  crow  before  its 
time.  It  was  not  a  man  setting  his  wits  at  a  child,  and 
winking  all  the  while  at  other  children  who  are  mightily 
pleased  at  being  let  into  the  secret,  but  a  consummate 
villain  entrapping  a  noble  nature  into  toils,  against  which 
no  discernment  was  available,  where  the  manner  was  as 
fathomless  as  the  purpose  seemed  dark  and  without  motive. 
The  part  of  Malvolio,  in  the  Twelfth  Night,  was  per- 
formed by  Bensley  with  a  richness  and  a  dignity  of 
which  (to  judge  from  some  recent  castings  of  that  char- 
acter) the  very  tradition  must  be  worn  out  from  the 
stage.  No  manager  in  those  days  would  have  dreamed 
of  giving  it  to  Mr.  Baddeley  or  Mr.  Parsons :  '  when  Bens- 
ley was  occasionally  absent  from  the  theater,  John  Kemble 
thought  it  no  derogation  to  succed  in  the  part.  Malvolio 
is  not  essentially  ludicrous.  He  becomes  comic  but  by 
accident.  He  is  cold,  austere,  repelling;  but  dignified, 
consistent,  and,  for  what  appears,  rather  of  an  over- 
stretched morality.  Maria  describes  him  as  a  sort  of 
Puritan;  and  he  might  have  worn  his  gold  chain  with 
honor  in  one  of  our  old  Roundhead  families,  in  the  serv- 
ice of  a  Lambert  or  a  Lady  Fairfax.  But  his  morality 
and  his  manners  are  misplaced  in  lUyria.  He  is  opposed 
to  the  proper  levities  of  the  piece,  and  falls  in  the  un- 
equal contest.  Still  his  pride,  or  his  gravity  (call  it 
which  you  will),  is  inherent  and  native  to  the  man,  not 
mock  or  affected,  which  latter  only  are  the  fit  objects  to 
excite  laughter.  His  quality  is  at  the  best  unlovely,  but 
neither  buffoon  nor  contemptible.  His  bearing  is  lofty, 
a  little  above  his  station,  but  probably  not  much  above 
his  deserts.  We  see  no  reason  why  he  should  not  have 
been  brave,  honorable,  accomplished.    His  careless  com- 

« Robert    Baddeley    (1733-1794)    and    William    Parsons     (1736- 
1795). 


LAMB  191 

mittal  of  the  ring  to  the  ground  *  (which  he  was  com- 
missioned to  restore  to  Cesario)  bespeaks  a  generosity  of 
birth  and  feeling.  His  dialect  on  all  occasions  is  that  of 
a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  education.  We  must  not  con- 
found him  with  the  eternal  old,  low  steward  of  comedy. 
He  is  master  of  the  houseliold  to  a  great  princess,  a  dig- 
nity probably  conferred  upon  him  for  other  respects  than 
age  or  length  of  service.  Olivia,  at  the  first  indication 
of  his  supposed  madness,  declares  that  she  "would  not 
have  him  miscarry  for  half  of  her  dowry."  *  Does  this  look 
as  if  the  character  was  meant  to  appear  little  or  insignifi- 
cant? Once,  indeed,  she  accuses  him  to  his  face — of 
what? — of  being  "sick  of  self-love," — ^but  with  a  gentle- 
ness and  considerateness  which  could  not  have  been,  if 
she  had  not  thought  that  this  particular  infirmity  shaded 
some  virtues.  His  rebuke  to  the  knight  and  his  sottish 
revelers  '  is  sensible  and  spirited ;  and  when  we  take  into 
consideration  the  unprotected  condition  of  his  mistress, 
and  the  strict  regard  with  which  her  state  of  real  or  dis- 
sembled mourning  would  draw  the  eyes  of  the  world  upon 
her  house-afFairs,  Malvolio  might  feel  the  honor  of  the 
family  in  some  sort  in  his  keeping;  as  it  appears  not  that 
Olivia  had  any  more  brothers,  or  kinsmen,  to  look  to  it 
—for  Sir  Toby  had  dropped  all  such  nice  respects  at  the 
buttery  hatch.  That  Malvolio  was  meant  to  be  repre- 
sented as  possessing  estimable  qualities,  the  expression  of 
the  Duke,  in  his  anxiety  to  have  him  reconciled,  almost 
infers.  "Pursue  him,  and  entreat  him  to  a  peace." '  Even 
in  his  abused  state  of  chains  and  darkness,  a  sort  of  great- 
ness seems  never  to  desert  him.  He  argues  highly  and 
well  with  the  supposed  Sir  Topas,  and  philosophizes  gal- 
lantly upon  his  straw."  There  must  have  been  some 
shadow  of  worth  about  the  man ;  he  must  have  been  some- 
Mi,  1.  15. 

•  III.  Iv.  70. 
•II,  HI,  93-108. 
»V,  1,  389. 

*  Cloton.     What  Is  the  opinion  of  Pytbagoras   concerning  wild 

fowl? 
Mai.    That   the  soul  of  oar  grandam   might  haply   inhabit   a 

bird. 
Clown.     What  thinkest  tbon  of  his  opinion? 
jdal.     I   thinlc  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way  approve  of  his 

opinion. 

[IV,  ii,  54-60.     Quoted  by  Lamb.] 


192  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

thing  more  than  a  mere  vapor — a  thing  of  straw,  or  Jack 
in  office — before  Fabian  and  Maria  could  have  ventured 
sending  him  upon  a  courting  errand  to  Olivia.  There  was 
some  consonancy  (as  he  would  say)  in  the  undertaking, 
or  the  jest  would  have  been  too  bold  even  for  that  house 
of  misrule. 

Bensley,  accordingly,  threw  over  the  part  an  air  of 
Spanish  loftiness.  He  looked,  spake,  and  moved  like  an 
old  Castilian.  He  was  starch,  spruce,  opinionated,  but 
his  superstructure  of  pride  seemed  bottomed  upon  a 
sense  of  worth.  There  was  something  in  it  beyond  the 
coxcomb.  It  was  big  and  swelling,  but  you  could  not  be 
sure  that  it  was  hollow.  You  might  wish  to  see  it  taken 
down,  but  you  felt  that  it  was  upon  an  elevation.  He 
was  magnificent  from  the  outset;  but  when  the  decent 
sobrieties  of  the  character  began  to  give  way,  and  the 
poison  of  self-love,  in  his  conceit  of  the  Countess's  affec- 
tion, gradually  to  work,  you  ^ would  have  thought  that  the 
hero  of  La  Mancha  "  in  person  stood  before  you.  How 
he  went  smiling  to  himself!  with  what  ineffable  careless- 
ness would  he  twirl  his  gold  chain!  what  a  dream  it  was! 
You  were  infected  with  the  illusion,  and  did  not  wish 
that  it  should  be  removed!  You  had  no  room  for  laugh- 
ter! If  an  unseasonable  reflection  of  morality  obtruded 
itself,  it  was  a  deep  sense  of  the  pitiable  infirmity  of  man's 
nature,  that  can  lay  him  open  to  such  frenzies — but  in 
truth  you  rather  admired  than  pitied  the  lunacy  while 
it  lasted — ^you  felt  that  an  hour  of  such  a  mistake  was 
worth  an  age  with  the  eyes  open.  Who  would  not  wish 
to  live  but  for  a  day  in  the  conceit  of  such  a  lady's  love 
as  Olivia?  Why,  the  Duke  would  have  given  his  princi- 
pality but  for  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  sleeping  or  waking, 
to  have  been  so  deluded.  The  man  seemed  to  tread  upon 
air,  to  taste  manna,  to  walk  with  his  head  in  the  clouds, 
to  mate  Hyperion.  O!  shake  not  the  castles  of  his  pride 
— endure  yet  for  a  season  bright  moments  of  confidence 
— "stand  still,  ye  watches  of  the  element,"  that  Malvolio 
may  be  still  in  fancy  fair  Olivia's  lord; — ^but  fate  and 
retribution  say  no — I  hear  the  mischievous  titter  of  Maria 
— the  witty  taunts  of  Sir  Toby — the  still  more  insup- 

*  Don  Quixote. 


LAMB  193 

portable  triumpli  of  the  foolish  knight — the  counterfeit 
Sir  Topas  is  unmasked — and  "thus  the  whirligig  of  time," 
as  the  true  clown  hath  it,  **brings  in  his  revenges."  ^°  I 
confess  that  I  never  saw  the  catastrophe  of  this  char- 
acter, while  Bensley  played  it,  without  a  kind  of  tragic 
interest. 


ON  THE  ARTIFICIAL  COMEDY  OF  THE  LAST 
CENTURY 

Charles  Lamb 

[Originally  published  in  the  London  Magazine  for  April, 
1822,  as  the  second  of  three  essays  on  "The  Old  Actors."  See 
Macaulay's  reply  to  Lamb's  defence  of  Restoration  comedy, 
page  359.] 

The  artificial  Comedy,  or  Comedy  of  Manners,  is  quite 
extinct  on  our  stage.  Congreve  and  Farquhar  show  their 
heads  once  in  seven  years  only,  to  be  exploded  and  put 
down  instantly.  The  times  cannot  bear  them.  Is  it  for 
a  few  wild  speeches,  an  occasional  license  of  dialogue? 
I  think  not  altogether.  The  business  of  their  dramatic 
characters  will  not  stand  the  moral  test.  We  screw 
everything  up  to  that.  Idle  gallantry  in  a  fiction,  a 
dream,  the  passing  pageant  of  an  evening,  startles  us  in 
the  same  way  as  the  alarming  indications  of  profligacy  in 
a  son  or  ward  in  real  life  should  startle  a  parent  or 
guardian.  We  have  no  such  middle  emotions  as  dramatic 
interests  left.  We  see  a  stage  libertine  playing  his  loose 
pranks  of  two  hours'  duration,  and  of  no  after  conse- 
quence, with  the  severe  eyes  which  inspect  real  vices  with 
their  bearings  upon  two  worlds.  We  are  spectators  to  a 
plot  or  intrigue  (not  reducible  in  life  to  the  point  of 
strict  morality)  and  take  it  all  for  truth.  We  substitute 
a  real  for  a  dramatic  person,  and  judge  him  accordingly. 
We  try  him  in  our  courts,  from  which  there  is  no  appeal 
to  the  dramatis  persorus,  his  peers.  We  have  been  spoiled 
with — not   sentimental   comedy — but   a   tyrant   far   more 

»<>V,  1,   385. 


194  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

pernicious  to  our  pleasures  which  has  succeeded  to  it,  the 
exclusive  and  all-devouring  drama  of  common  life;  where 
the  moral  point  is  everything;  where,  instead  of  the  fic- 
titious half -believed  personages  of  the  stage  (the  phan- 
toms of  old  comedy),  we  recognize  ourselves,  our  broth- 
ers, aunts,  kinsfolk,  allies,  patrons,  enemies, — the  same  as 
in  life, — with  an  interest  in  what  is  going  on  so  hearty 
and  substantial,  that  we  cannot  afford  our  moral  judg- 
ment, in  its  deepest  and  most  vital  results,  to  compromise 
or  slumber  for  a  moment.  What  is  there  transacting,  by 
no  modification  is  made  to  affect  us  in  any  other  man- 
ner than  the  same  events  or  characters  would  do  in  our 
relationships  of  life.  We  carry  our  fireside  concerns  to 
the  theater  with  us.  We  do  not  go  thither,  like  our  an- 
cestors, to  escape  from  the  pressure  of  reality,  so  much 
as  to  confirm  our  experience  of  it;  to  make  assurance 
double,  and  take  a  bond  of  fate.  We  must  live  our  toil- 
some lives  twice  over,  as  it  was  the  mournful  privilege 
of  Ulysses  to  descend  twice  to  the  shades.  All  that  neu- 
tral grround  of  character,  which  stood  between  vice  and 
virtue;  or  which  in  fact  was  indifferent  to  neither,  where 
neither  properly  was  called  in  question ;  that  happy  breath- 
ing-place from  the  burthen  of  a  perpetual  moral  ques- 
tioning— the  sanctuary  and  quiet  Alsatia  *  of  hunted 
casuistry — is  broken  up  and  disfranchised,  as  injurious 
to  the  interests  of  society.  The  privil^es  of  the  place 
are  taken  away  by  law.  We  dare  not  dally  with  images, 
or  names,  of  wrong.  We  bark  like  foolish  dogs  at  shad- 
ows. We  dread  infection  from  the  scenic  representation 
of  disorder,  and  fear  a  painted  pustule.  In  our  anxiety 
that  our  morality  should  not  take  cold,  we  wrap  it  up  in 
a  great  blanket  surtout  of  precaution  against  the  breeze 
and  sunshine, 

I  confess  for  myself  that  (with  no  great  delinquencies 
to  answer  for)  I  am  glad  for  a  season  to  take  an  airing 
beyond  the  diocese  of  the  strict  conscience, — not  to  live 
always  in  the  precincts  of  the  law-courts — but  now  and 
then,  for  a  dream-while  or  so,  to  imagine  a  world  with 
no  meddling  restrictions — to  get  into  recesses  whither  the 
hunter  cannot  follow  me — 


'  A  dlBtrict   in   the  precinct   of   Whltefrlars  wblch,   until   1697, 
was  a  legal  sanctuary  for  debtors. 


LAMB  195 


-Secret  shades 


Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 

While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove — ■ 

I  come  back  to  my  cage  and  my  restraint  the  fresher 
and  more  healthy  for  it.  I  wear  my  shackles  more  con- 
tentedly for  having  respired  the  breath  of  an  imaginary 
freedom.  I  do  not  know  how  it  is  with  others,  but  I  feel 
the  better  always  for  the  perusal  of  one  of  Congreve's 
— nay,  why  should  I  not  add  even  of  Wycherley's — come- 
dies. I  am  the  gayer  at  least  for  it;  and  I  could  never 
connect  those  sports  of  a  witty  fancy  in  any  shape  with 
any  result  to  be  drawn  from  them  to  imitation  in  real 
life.  They  are  a  world  of  themselves  almost  as  much  as 
fairyland.  Take  one  of  their  characters,  male  or  female 
(with  few  exceptions  they  are  alike),  and  place  it  in  a 
modern  play,  and  my  virtuous  indignation  shall  rise 
against  the  profligate  wretch  as  warmly  as  the  Catos  of 
the  pit  could  desire;  because  in  a  modern  play  I  am  to 
judge  of  the  right  and  the  wrong.  The  standard  of  police 
is  the  measure  of  political  jixstice.  The  atmosphere  will 
blight  it,  it  cannot  live  here.  It  has  got  into  a  moral 
world,  where  it  has  no  business,  from  which  it  must  needs 
fall  headlong;  as  dizzy,  and  incapable  of  making  a  stand, 
as  a  Swedenborgian  bad  spirit  that  has  wandered  un- 
awares into  the  sphere  of  one  of  his  Good  Men  or  Angels. 
But  in  its  own  world,  do  we  feel  the  creature  is  so  very 
bad? — The  Fainalls  and  the  Mirabels,  the  Dorimants  and 
the  Lady  Touchwoods,'  in  their  own  sphere,  do  not  offend 
my  moral  sense;  in  fact  they  do  not  appeal  to  it  at  all. 
They  seem  engaged  in  their  proper  element.  They  break 
through  no  laws,  or  conscious  restraints.  They  know  of 
none.  They  have  got  out  of  Christendom  into  the  land 
— what  shall  I  call  it? — of  cuckoldry — the  Utopia  of  gal- 
lantry, where  pleasure  is  duty,  and  the  manners  perfect 
freedom.  It  is  altogether  a  speculative  scene  of  things, 
which  has  no  reference  whatever  to  the  world  that  is. 
No  good  person  can  be  justly  offended  as  a  spectator,  be- 

*  From  Milton's  "11  Penseroso,"  lines  28-30. 

'Fainall  and  Mirabel  are  characters  In  Congreve's  The  Won  of 
the  World  (there  are  also  two  Mirabels  in  Farquhar's  The  Incon- 
ttant),  Dorimant  in  Etheredge's  The  Man  oj  Mode,  Lady  Touch- 
wood in  Congreve's  The  Double  Dealer. 


196  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

cause  no  good  person  suffers  on  the  stage.  Judged 
morally,  every  character  in  these  plays — ^the  few  excep- 
tions only  are  mistakes — is  alike  essentially  vain  and 
worthless.  The  great  art  of  Congreve  is  especially  shown 
in  this,  that  he  has  entirely  excluded  from  his  scenes — 
some  little  generosities  on  the  part  of  Angelica  *  perhaps 
excepted — not  only  any  thing  like  a  faultless  character, 
but  any  pretensions  to  goodness  or  good  feelings  whatso- 
ever. Whether  he  did  this  designedly,  or  instinctively, 
the  effect  is  as  happy  as  the  design  (if  design)  was  bold. 
I  used  to  wonder  at  the  strange  power  which  his  Way  of 
the  World  in  particular  possesses  of  interesting  you  all 
along  in  the  pursuits  of  characters  for  whom  you  abso- 
lutely care  nothing — for  you  neither  hate  nor  love  his 
personages — and  I  think  it  is  owing  to  this  very  indif- 
ference for  any,  that  you  endure  the  whole.  He  has 
spread  a  privation  of  moral  light,  I  will  call  it,  rather  than 
by  the  ugly  name  of  palpable  darkness,  over  his  crea- 
tions; and  his  shadows  flit  before  you  without  distinction 
or  preference.  Had  he  introduced  a  good  character,  a 
single  gush  of  moral  feeling,  revulsion  of  the  judgment 
to  actual  life  and  actual  duties,  the  impertinent  Goshen 
would  have  only  lighted  to  the  discovery  of  deformities, 
which  now  are  none,  because  we  think  them  none. 

Translated  into  real  life,  the  characters  of  his — and  his 
friend  Wycherley's — dramas  are  profligates  and  strum- 
pets,— the  business  of  their  brief  existence  the  undivided 
pursuit  of  lawless  gallantry.  No  other  spring  of  action, 
or  possible  motive  of  conduct,  is  recognized;  principles 
which,  universally  acted  upon,  must  reduce  this  frame 
of  things  to  a  chaos.  But  we  do  them  wrong  in  so  trans- 
lating them.  No  such  effects  are  produced  in  their 
world.  When  we  are  among  them,  we  are  amongst  a 
chaotic  people.  We  are  not  to  judge  them  by  our  usages. 
No  reverend  institutions  are  insulted  by  their  proceed- 
ings,— for  they  have  none  among  them.  No  peace  of 
families  is  violated, — for  no  family  ties  exist  among  them. 
No  purity  of  the  marriage  bed  is  stained, — for  none  is 
supposed  to  have  a  being.  No  deep  affections  are  dis- 
quieted,— no  holy  wedlock  bands  are  snapped  asunder, — 

*  In  Love  for  Love. 


LAMB  197 

for  afFection's  depth  and  wedded  faith  are  not  of  the 
growth  of  that  soil.  There  is  neither  right  nor  wrong, 
— ^gratitude  or  its  opposite, — claim  or  duty, — paternity  or 
sonship.  Of  what  consequence  is  it  to  virtue,  or  how  is 
she  at  all  concerned  about  it,  whether  Sir  Simon,  or 
Dapperwit,  steal  away  Miss  Martha;  or  who  is  the  father 
of  Lord  Froth's  or  Sir  Paul  Pliant's  children  ?5 

The  whole  is  a  passing  pagfeant,  where  we  should  sit 
as  unconcerned  at  the  issues,  for  life  or  death,  as  at  a 
battle  of  the  frogs  and  mice.  But,  like  Don  Quixote,  we 
take  part  against  the  puppets,  and  quite  as  impertinently. 
We  dare  not  contemplate  an  Atlantis,"  a  scheme,  out  of 
which  our  coxcombical  moral  sense  is  for  a  little  transi- 
tory ease  excluded.  We  have  not  the  courage  to  imagine 
a  state  of  things  for  which  there  is  neither  reward  nor 
punishment.  We  cling  to  the  painful  necessities  of  shame 
and  blame.    We  would  indict  our  very  dreams.^  .  .  . 


THE  SANITY  OF  TRUE  GENIUS 
Charles  Lamb 

[First  published  in  the  "New  Monthly  Magazine  for  May, 
1826,  aa  one  of  a  series  of  accounts  of  "Popular  Fallacies."] 

So  far  from  the  position  holding  true,  that  great  wit 
(or  genius,  in  our  modem  way  of  speaking)  has  a  neces- 
sary alliance  with  insanity,  the  greatest  wits,  on  the  con- 
trary, will  ever  be  found  to  be  the  sanest  writers.  It  is 
impossible  for  the  mind  to  conceive  a  mad  Shakespeare. 
The  greatness  of  wit,  by  which  the  poetic  talent  is  here 
chiefly  to  be  understood,  manifests  itself  in  the  admir- 
able balance  of  all  the  faculties.  Madness  is  the  dispro- 
portionate straining  or  excess  of  any  one  of  them.  "So 
strong  a  wit,"  says  Cowley,  speaking  of  a  poetical  friend, 

"     did  Nature  to  him  frame, 

As  all   things  but  his  judgment  overcame; 

•  In  Wycherley's  Love  in  a  Wood. 
•Ideal  commonwealth  (from  Bacon). 

^  The  remainder  of  the  essay  celebrates  some  of  the  actors  as- 
Bociated   with  the  old  comedy. 


198  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

His  judgment  like  the  heavenly  moon  did  show, 
Tempering    that   mighty    sea    below."  * 

The  ground  of  the  mistake  is,  that  men,  finding  in  the 
raptures  of  the  higher  poetry  a  condition  of  exaltation, 
to  which  they  have  no  parallel  in  their  own  experience, 
besides  the  spurious  resemblance  of  it  in  dreams  and 
fevers,  impute  a  state  of  dreaminess  and  fever  to  the 
poet.  But  the  true  poet  dreams  being  awake.  He  is  not 
possessed  by  his  subject,  but  has  dominion  over  it.  In 
the  groves  of  Eden  he  walks  familiar  as  in  his  native 
paths.  He  ascends  the  empyrean  heaven,  and  is  not  in- 
toxicated. He  treads  the  burning  marl  without  dismay; 
he  wins  his  flight  without  self-loss  through  realms  of 
chaos  "and  old  night."  Or,  if  abandoning  himself  to 
that  severer  chaos  of  a  "human  mind  untuned,"  he  is 
content  awhile  to  be  mad  with  Lear,  or  to  hate  mankind 
(a  sort  of  madness)  with  Timon,  neither  is  that  mad- 
ness, nor  this  misanthropy,  so  unchecked,  but  that — 
never  letting  the  reins  of  reason  wholly  go,  while  most 
he  seems  to  do  so — ^he  has  his  better  genius  still  whis- 
pering at  his  ear,  with  the  good  servant  Kent  suggesting 
saner  counsels,  or  with  the  honest  steward  Flavius  recom- 
mending kindlier  resolutions.^  Where  he  seems  most  ta 
recede  from  humanity,  he  will  be  found  the  truest  to 
it.  From  beyond  the  scope  of  Nature  if  he  summon 
possible  existences,  he  subjugates  them  to  the  law  of  her 
consistency.  He  is  beautifully  loyal  to  that  sovereign 
directress,  even  when  he  appears  most  to  betray  and  de- 
sert her.  His  ideal  tribes  submit  to  policy;  his  very 
monsters  are  tamed  to  his  hand,  even  as  that  wild  sea- 
brood,  shepherded  by  Proteus.  He  tames  and  he  clothes 
them  with  attributes  of  flesh  and  blood,  till  they  wonder 
at  themselves,  like  Indian  Islanders  forced  to  submit  to 
European  vesture.  Caliban,  the  Witches,  are  as  true  to 
the  laws  of  their  own  nature  (ours  with  a  difference),  as 
Othello,  Hamlet,  and  Macbeth.  Herein  the  great  and 
the  little  wits  are  differenced, — that  if  the  latter  wandet 
ever  so  little  from  nature  or  actual  existence,  they  lose 


^From  the  elegy  "On  the  Death  of  Mr.  William  Harvey." 
»  See  Kinff  Lear,  I,  i,  141-68,  and  Timon  of  Athens,  IV,  ill,  486- 
641. 


LAMB  199 

themselves,  and  their  readers.  Their  phantoms  are  law- 
less ;  their  visions  nightmares.  They  do  not  create,  which 
implies  shaping  and  consistency.  Their  imaginations  are 
not  active — for  to  be  active  is  to  call  something  into  act 
and  form — but  passive,  as  men  in  sick  dreams.  For  the 
super-natural,  or  something  super-added  to  what  we  know 
of  nature,  they  give  you  the  plainly  non-natural.  And 
if  this  were  all,  and  that  these  mental  hallucinations  were 
discoverable  only  in  the  treatment  of  subjects  out  of  na- 
ture, or  transcending  it,  the  judgment  might  with  some 
plea  be  pardoned  if  it  ran  riot,  and  a  little  wantonized: 
but  even  in  the  describing  of  real  and  everyday  life,  that 
which  is  before  their  eyes,  one  o'f  these  lesser  wits  shall 
more  deviate  from  nature — show  more  of  that  inconse- 
quence which  has  a  natural  alliance  with  frenzy — than  a 
great  genius  in  his  "maddest  fits,"  as  Wither  somewhere 
calls  them.  We  appeal  to  any  one  that  is  acquainted 
with  the  common  run  of  Lane's  novels,^ — as  they  existed 
some  twenty  or  thirty  years  back, — those  scanty  intellec- 
tual viands  of  the  whole  female  reading  public,  till  a 
happier  genius  arose,  and  expelled  for  ever  the  innutri- 
tions phantoms, — whether  he  has  not  found  his  brain  more 
**betossed,"  his  memory  more  puzzled,  his  sense  of  when 
and  where  more  confounded,  among  the  improbable 
events,  the  incoherent  incidents,  the  inconsistent  char- 
acters, or  no-characters,  of  some  third-rate  love  intrigue 
— where  the  persons  shall  be  a  Lord  Glendamour  and  a 
Miss  Rivers,  and  the  scene  only  alternate  between  Bath 
and  Bond  Street — a  more  bewildering  dreaminess  in- 
duced upon  him,  than  he  has  felt  wandering  over  all  the 
fairy  grounds  of  Spenser.  In  the  productions  we  refer 
to,  nothing  but  names  and  places  is  familiar;  the  persons 
are  neither  of  this  world  nor  of  any  other  conceivable 
one;  an  endless  string  of  activities  without  purpose,  or 
purposes  destitute  of  motive: — we  meet  phantoms  in  our 
known  walks;  fantasques  only  christened.  In  the  poet 
we  have  names  which  announce  fiction;  and  we  have 
absolutely  no  place  at  all,  for  the  things  and  persons  of 
the  Fairy  Queen  prate  not  of  their  "whereabout."  But 
in  their  inner  nature,  and  the  law  of  their  speech  and 

■  Lane  was  a  popular  publisher. 


200  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

actions,  we  are  at  home  and  upon  acquainted  ground. 
The  one  turns  life  into  a  dream;  the  other  to  the  wild- 
est dreams  gives  the  sobrieties  of  every-day  occurrences. 
By  what  subtile  art  of  tracing  the  mental  processes  it  is 
effected,  we  are  not  philosophers  enough  to  explain,  but 
in  that  wonderful  episode  of  the  cave  of  Mammon,*  in 
which  the  Money  God  appears  first  in  the  lowest  form  of  a 
miser,  is  then  a  worker  of  metals,  and  becomes  the  god 
of  all  the  treasures  of  the  world;  and  has  a  daughter, 
Ambition,  before  whom  all  the  world  kneels  for  favors — 
with  the  Hesperian  fruit,  the  waters  of  Tantalus,  with 
Pilate  washing  his  hands  vainly,  but  not  impertinently,  in 
the  same  stream — that  we  should  be  at  one  moment  in  the 
cave  of  an  old  hoarder  of  treasures,  at  the  next  at  the 
forge  of  the  Cyclops,  in  a  palace  and  yet  in  hell,  all  at 
once,  with  the  sBifting  mutations  of  the  most  rambling 
dream,  and  our  judgment  yet  all  the  time  awake,  and 
neither  able  nor  willing  to  detect  the  fallacy, — is  a  proof 
of  that  hidden  sanity  which  still  guides  the  poet  in  the 
widest  seeming-aberrations. 

It  is  not  enough  to  say  that  the  whole  episode  is  a 
copy  of  the  mind's  conceptions  in  sleep;  it  is,  in  some 
sort — ^but  what  a  copy!  Let  the  most  romantic  of  us, 
that  has  been  entertained  all  night  with  the  spectacle  of 
some  wild  and  magnificent  vision,  recombine  it  in  the 
morning,  and  try  it  by  his  waking  judgment.  That  which 
appeared  so  shifting,  and  yet  so  coherent,  while  that 
faculty  was  passive,  when  it  comes  under  cool  examina- 
tion, shall  appear  so  reasonless  and  so  unlinked,  that  we 
are  ashamed  to  have  been  so  deluded,  and  to  have  taken, 
though  but  in  sleep,  a  monster  for  a  god.  But  the  transi- 
tions in  this  episode  are  every  whit  as  violent  as  in  the 
most  extravagant  dream,  and  yet  the  waking  judgment 
ratifies  them. 

*  Faerie  Queene,  Bk.  ii,  canto  tU. 


HAZLITT  m. 

CHAKACTERS  OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 
William  Hazlitt 

[Hazlitt's  volume  bearing  the  above  title  appeared  in  1817. 
The  essays  were  based  on  current  theatrical  criticism  which 
he  had  contributed  to  journals.] 

HAMLET 

This  is  that  Hamlet  the  Dane,  whom  we  read  of  in 
our  youth  and  whom  we  may  be  said  almost  to  remember 
in  our  after-years;  he  who  made  that  famous  soliloquy 
on  life,  who  gave  the  advice  to  the  players,  who  thought 
"this  goodly  frame,  the  earth,  a  sterile  promontory,  and 
this  brave  o'erhanging  firmament,  the  air,  this  majestical 
roof  fretted  with  golden  fire,  a  foul  and  pestilent  con- 
gregation of  vapors";  whom  "man  delighted  not,  nor 
woman  neither";  he  who  talked  with  the  grave-diggers, 
and  moralized  on  Yorick's  skull;  the  school-fellow  of 
Rosencrans  and  Guildenstern  at  Wittenberg;  the  friend 
of  Horatio;  the  lover  of  Ophelia;  he  that  was  mad  and 
sent  to  England;  the  slow  avenger  of  his  father's  death; 
who  lived  at  the  court  of  Horwendillus  five  hundred  years 
before  we  were  bom,  but  all  whose  thoughts  we  seem  to 
know  as  well  as  we  do  our  own,  because  we  have  read 
them  in  Shakespeare. 

Hamlet  is  a  name ;  his  speeches  and  sayings  but  the  idle 
coinage  of  the  poet's  brain.  What  then,  are  they  not 
Teal?  They  are  as  real  as  our  own  thoughts.  Their 
reality  is  in  the  reader's  mind.  It  is  we  who  are  Hamlet. 
This  play  has  a  prophetic  truth,  which  is  above  that  of 
history.  Whoever  has  become  thoughtful  and  melancholy 
through  his  own  mishaps  or  those  of  others;  whoever  has 
borne  about  with  him  the  clouded  brow  of  reflection,  and 
thought  himself  "too  much  i'  the  sun" ;  whoever  has  seen 
the  golden  lamp  of  day  dimmed  by  envious  mists  rising 
in  his  own  breast,  and  could  find  in  the  world  before  him 
only  a  dull  blank  with  nothing  left  remarkable  in  it; 
whoever  has  known  "the  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  inso- 
lence of  office,  or  the  spurns  which  patient  merit  of  the 


203  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

unworthy  takes";  he  who  has  felt  his  mind  sink  within 
him,  and  sadness  cling  to  his  heart  like  a  malady,  who 
has  had  his  hopes  blighted  and  his  youth  staggered  by  the 
apparition  of  strange  things;  who  cannot  be  well  at  ease, 
while  he  sees  evil  hovering  near  him  like  a  specter ;  whose 
powers  of  action  have  been  eaten  up  by  thought;  he  to 
whom  the  universe  seems  infinite,  and  himself  nothing; 
whose  bitterness  of  soul  makes  him  careless  of  conse- 
quences, and  who  goes  to  a  play  as  his  best  resource  to 
shove  off,  to  a  second  remove,  the  evils  of  life  by  a  mock 
representation  of  them — this  is  the  true  Hamlet. 

We  have  been  so  used  to  this  tragedy  that  we  hardly 
know  how  to  criticize  it,  any  more  than  we  should  know 
how  to  describe  our  own  faces.  But  we  must  make  such 
observations  as  we  can.  It  is  the  one  of  Shakespeare's 
plays  that  we  think  of  the  oftenest,  because  it  abounds 
most  in  striking  reflections  on  human  life,  and  because 
the  distresses  of  Hamlet  are  transferred,  by  the  turn  of 
his  mind,  to  the  general  account  of  humanity.  What- 
ever happens  to  him  we  apply  to  ourselves,  because  he 
applies  it  so  himself  as  a  means  of  general  reasoning. 
He  is  a  great  moralizer;  and  what  makes  him  worth  at- 
tending to  is  that  he  moralizes  on  his  own  feelings  and 
experience.  He  is  not  a  commonplace  pedant.  If  Lear 
is  distinguished  by  the  greatest  depth  of  passion,  Hamlet 
is  the  most  remarkable  for  the  ingenuity,  originality,  and 
unstudied  development  of  character.  Shakespeare  had 
more  magnanimity  than  any  other  poet,  and  he  has  shown 
more  of  it  in  this  play  than  in  any  other.  There  is  no 
attempt  to  force  an  interest:  everything  is  left  for  time 
and  circumstances  to  unfold.  The  attention  is  excited 
without  effort,  the  incidents  succeed  each  other  as  mat- 
ters of  course,  the  characters  think  and  speak  and  act 
just  as  they  might  do  if  left  entirely  to  themselves. 
There  is  no  set  purpose,  no  straining  at  a  point.  The 
observations  are  suggested  by  the  passing  scene — the  gusts 
of  passion  come  and  go  like  sounds  of  music  borne  on 
the  wind.  The  whole  play  is  an  exact  transcript  of  what 
might  be  supposed  to  have  taken  place  at  the  court  of 
Denmark,  at  the  remote  period  of  time  fixed  upon,  before 
the  modem  refinements  in  morals  and  manners  were  heard 
of.    It  would  have  been  interesting  enough  to  have  been 


HAZLITT  203 

admitted  as  a  bystander  in  such  a  scene  at  such  a  time, 
to  have  heard  and  witnessed  something  of  what  was  going 
on.  But  here  we  are  more  than  spectators.  We  have  not 
only  "the  outward  passions  and  the  signs  of  grief,"  but 
"we  have  that  within  which  passes  show."  We  read  the 
thoughts  of  the  heart,  we  catch  the  passions  living  as 
they  rise.  Other  dramatic  writers  give  us  very  fine  ver- 
sions and  paraphrases  of  nature;  but  Shakespeare,  to- 
gether with  his  own  comments,  gives  us  the  original  text, 
that  we  may  judge  for  ourselves.  This  is  a  very  great 
advantage. 

The  character  of  Hamlet  stands  quite  by  itself.  It  is 
not  a  character  marked  by  strength  of  will  or  even  of 
passion,  but  by  refinement  of  thought  and  sentiment. 
Hamlet  is  as  little  of  the  hero  as  a  man  can  well  be:  but 
he  is  a  young  and  princely  novice,  full  of  high  enthusiasm 
and  quick  sensibility — the  sport  of  circumstances,  ques- 
tioning with  fortune  and  refining  on  his  own  feelings, 
and  forced  from  the  natural  bias  of  his  disposition  by  the 
strangeness  of  his  situation.  He  seems  incapable  of  de- 
liberate action,  and  is  only  hurried  into  extremities  on 
the  spur  of  the  occasion,  when  he  has  no  time  to  reflect,  as 
in  the  scene  where  he  kills  Polonius,  and  again,  where 
he  alters  the  letters  which  Rosencrans  and  Guildenstern 
are  taking  with  them  to  England,  purporting  his  death. 
At  other  times,  when  he  is  most  bound  to  act,  he  remains 
puzzled,  undecided,  and  skeptical,  dallies  with  his  pur- 
poses, till  the  occasion  is  lost,  and  finds  out  some  pre- 
tence to  relapse  into  indolence  and  thoughtfulness  again. 
For  this  reason  he  refuses  to  kill  the  King  when  he  is  at 
his  prayers,  and  by  a  refinement  in  malice,  which  is  in 
truth  only  an  excuse  for  his  own  want  of  resolution,^ 
defers  his  revenge  to  a  more  fatal  opportunity,  when  he 
shall  be  engaged  in  some  act  "that  has  no  relish  of  salva- 
tion in  it." 

Now  might  I  do  it  pat,  now  he  is  praying. 
And  now  I'll  do  't. — And  so  he  goes  to  heaven, 

'  Hazlitt  may  have  derived  this  Interpretation  of  the  scene 
from  Coleridge,  who,  in  his  notes  on  the  passaee,  refers  to  Dr. 
Johnson's  objection  to  It  as  a  "mistalfinR  of  the  marks  of  re- 
luctance and  procrastination  for  impetuous,  borror-strilcing  fiend- 
IsbnesB." 


S04  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

And  BO  am  I  reveng'd.     That  tcould  he  soann'd. 
A  villain  kills  my  father,  and  for  that, 
I,  his  sole  son,  do  this  same  villain  send 
To  heaven.*  .  .  . 

He  is  the  prince  of  philosophical  speculators;  and  be- 
cause he  cannot  have  his  revenge  perfect,  according  to 
the  most  refined  idea  his  wish  can  form,  he  declines  it 
altogether.  So  he  scruples  to  trust  the  suggestions  of  the 
ghost,  contrives  the  scene  of  the  play  to  have  surer  proof 
of  his  uncle's  guilt,  and  then  rests  satisfied  with  his  con- 
firmation of  his  suspicions,  and  the  success  of  his  experi- 
ment, instead  of  acting  upon  it.  Yet  he  is  sensible  of 
his  own  weakness,  taxes  himself  with  it,  and  tries  to 
reason  himself  out  of  it. 

How  all  occasions  do  inform  against  me. 
And  spur  my  dull  revenge  I   [etc.]  ■  .  .  . 

Still  he  does  nothing;  and  this  very  speculation  on  his 
own  infirmity  only  affords  him  another  occasion  for  in- 
dulging it.  It  is  not  from  any  want  of  attachment  to 
his  father  or  of  abhorrence  of  his  murder  that  Hamlet  is 
thus  dilatory,  but  it  is  more  to  his  taste  to  indulge  his 
imagination  in  reflecting  upon  the  enormity  of  the  crime 
and  refining  on  his  schemes  of  vengeance,  than  to  put 
them  into  immediate  practice.  His  ruling  passion  is  to 
think,  not  to  act;  and  any  vague  pretext  that  flatters  this 
propensity  instantly  diverts  him  from  his  previous  pur- 
poses. 

The  moral  perfection  of  this  character  has  been  called 
in  question,  we  think,  by  those  who  did  not  understand 
it.  It  is  more  interesting  than  according  to  rules;  ami- 
able, though  not  faultless.  The  ethical  delineations  of 
"that  noble  and  liberal  casuist"  (as  Shakespeare  has  been 
well  called)  do  not  exhibit  the  drab-colored  Quakerism  of 
morality.  His  plays  are  not  copied  from  The  Whole 
Duty  of  Man  or  from  The  Academy  of  Compliments!  * 

'  III,  ill,  72-78.     The  omission  is  a  misquotation  of  a  few  more  V 
lines. 

•IV,  Iv.  32-33.     Hazlitt  quotes  the  entire  sololiquy  (32-66). 

*  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man  was  an  anonymous  treatise,  pub- 
lished 1659  ;  The  Acadcmv  of  ComplimentB,  with  the  sub-title  The 
Whole  Art  of  Courtship,  belonged  to  the  same  period. 


HAZLITT  805 

We  confess  we  are  a  little  shocked  at  the  want  of  refine- 
ment in  those  who  are  shocked  at  the  want  of  refine- 
ment in  Hamlet.  The  neglect  of  punctilious  exactness 
in  his  behavior  either  partakes  of  the  "license  of  the  time," 
or  else  belongs  to  the  very  excess  of  intellectual  refine- 
ment in  the  character,  which  makes  the  common  rules  of 
life,  as  well  as  his  own  purposes,  sit  loose  upon  him. 
He  may  be  said  to  be  amenable  only  to  the  tribunal  of 
his  own  thoughts,  and  is  too  much  taken  up  with  the 
airy  world  of  contemplation  to  lay  as  much  stress  as  he 
ought  on  the  practical  consequences  of  things.  His 
habitual  principles  of  action  are  unhinged  and  out  of 
joint  with  the  time.  His  conduct  to  Ophelia  is  quite 
natural  in  his  circumstances.  It  is  that  of  assumed 
severity  only.  It  is  the  effect  of  disappointed  hope,  of 
bitter  regrets,  of  affection  suspended,  not  obliterated,  by 
the  distractions  of  the  scene  around  him!  Amidst  the 
natural  and  preternatural  horrors  of  his  situation,  he 
might  be  excused  in  delicacy  from  carrying  on  a  regular 
courtship.  When  "his  father's  spirit  was  in  arms,"  it 
was  not  a  time  for  the  son  to  make  love  in.  He  could 
neither  marry  Ophelia,  nor  wound  her  mind  by  explain- 
ing the  cause  of  his  alienation,  which  he  durst  hardly 
trust  himself  to  think  of.  It  would  have  taken  him  years 
to  have  come  to  a  direct  explanation  on  the  point.  In 
the  harassed  state  of  his  mind,  he  could  not  have  done 
much  otherwise  than  he  did.  His  conduct  does  not  con- 
tradict what  he  says  when  he  sees  her  funeral, — 

I  loved  Ophelia:  forty  thousand  brothers 
Could  not  with  all  their  quantity  of  love 
Make  up  my  sum.* 

Nothing  can  be  more  affecting  or  beautiful  than  the 
Queen's  apostrophe  to  Ophelia  on  throwing  the  flowers 
into  the  grave. 

Sweets  to  the  sweet;  farewell! 
I  hop'd  thou  shouldst  have  been  my  Hamlet's  wife: 
I  thought  thy  bride-bed  to  have  deck'd,  sweet  maid. 
And  not  to  have  strew'd  thy  grave.' 

•V,  L  292-94.  'Ibid.,  266-69. 


206  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

Shakespeare  was  thoroughly  a  master  of  the  mixed  motives 
of  human  character,  and  he  here  shows  us  the  Queen, 
who  was  so  criminal  in  some  respects,  not  without  sensi- 
bility and  affection  in  other  relations  of  life.  Ophelia 
is  a  character  almost  too  exquisitely  touching  to  be  dwelt 
upon.  Oh,  rose  of  May,  oh,  flower  too  soon  faded!  Her 
love,  her  madness,  her  death,  are  described  with  the  truest 
touches  of  tenderness  and  pathos.  It  is  a  character  which 
nobody  but  Shakespeare  could  have  drawn  in  the  way 
he  has  done,  and  to  the  conception  of  which  there  is 
not  even  the  smallest  approach,  except  in  some  of  the 
old  romantic  ballads.'^  Her  brother,  Laertes,  is  a  char- 
acter we  do  ^ot  like  so  well:  he  is  too  hot  and  choleric, 
and  somewhat  rhodomontade.  Polonius  is  a  perfect  char- 
acter in  its  kind;  nor  is  there  any  foundation  for  the 
objections  which  have  been  made  to  the  consistency  of 
this  part.  It  is  said  that  he  acts  very  foolishly  and 
talks  very  sensibly.  There  is  no  inconsistency  in  that. 
Again,  that  he  talks  wisely  at  one  time  and  foolishly  at 
another;  that  his  advice  to  Laertes  is  very  excellent,  and 
his  advice  to  the  King  and  Queen  on  the  subject  of  Ham- 
let's madness  very  ridiculous.  But  he  gives  the  one  as 
a  father,  and  is  sincere  in  it;  he  gives  the  other  as  a 
mere  courtier,  a  busybody,  and  is  accordingly  oflficious, 
garrulous,  and  impertinent.  In  short,  Shakespeare  has 
been  accused  of  inconsistency  in  this  and  other  characters, 
only  because  he  has  kept  up  the  distinction  which  there 
is  in  nature,  between  the  understandings  and  the  moral 
habits  of  men,  between  the  absurdity  of  their  ideas  and 
the  absurdity  of  their  motives.  Polonius  is  not  a  fool, 
but  he  makes  himself  so.  His  folly,  whether  in  his  actions 
or  speeches,  comes  under  the  head  of  impropriety  of 
intention. 

We  do  not  like  to  see  our  author's  plays  acted,  and 
least  of  all  Hamlet.^  There  is  no  play  that  suffers  so  much 

'  In  the  account  of  her  death,  a  friend  has  pointed  out  an  in- 
stance of  the  poet's  exact  observation  of  nature : 

There    is   a    willow    mowing   o'er   a    broolc, 
That  sliows  its  hoary  leaves  i'  th'  glassy  stream. 
The  inside   of   the   leaves  of  the   willow,   next  the  water,   is  of  a 
whitish    color,    and    the    reflection    would    therefore    be    "hoary." 
[Haslitt's  note.] 
*  With  this  whole  paragraph,  compare  Lamb,  p.  174. 


HAZLITT  207 

in  being  transferred  to  the  stage.  Hamlet  himself  seems 
hardly  capable  of  being  acted.  Mr.  Kemble  unavoidably 
fails  in  this  character,  from  a  want  of  ease  and  variety. 
The  character  of  Hamlet  is  made  up  of  undulating  lines; 
it  has  the  yielding  flexibility  of  "a  wave  o'  th'  sea."  Mr. 
Kemble  plays  it  like  a  man  in  armor,  with  a  determined 
inveteracy  of  purpose,  in  one  undeviating  straight  line, 
which  is  as  remote  from  the  natural  grace  and  refined 
susceptibility  of  the  character  as  the  sharp  angles  and 
abrupt  starts  which  Mr.  Kean  introduces  into  the  part. 
Mr.  Kean's  Hamlet  is  as  much  too  splenetic  and  rash  as 
Mr.  Kemble's  is  too  deliberate  and  formal.  His  manner 
is  too  strong  and  pointed.  He  throws  a  severity,  ap- 
proaching to  virulence,  into  the  common  observations  and 
answers.  There  is  nothing  of  this  in  Hamlet.  He  is, 
as  it  were,  wrapped  up  in  his  reflections,  and  only  thinks 
aloud.  There  should  therefore  be  no  attempt  to  impress 
what  he  says  upon  others  by  a  studied  exaggeration  of 
emphasis  or  manner, — no  talking  at  his  hearers.  There 
should  be  as  much  of  the  gentleman  and  scholar  as  pos- 
sible infused  into  the  part,  and  as  little  of  the  actor.  A 
pensive  air  of  sadness  should  sit  reluctantly  upon  his 
brow,  but  no  appearance  of  fixed  and  sullen  gloom.  He 
is  full  of  weakness  and  melancholy,  but  there  is  no 
harshness  in  his  nature.  He  is  the  most  amiable  of 
misanthropes. 

MACBETH 

Macbeth  and  Lear,  Othello  and  Hamlet,  are  usually 
reckoned  Shakespeare's  four  principal  tragedies.  Lear 
stands  first  for  the  profound  intensity  of  the  passion, 
Macbeth  for  the  wildness  of  the  imagination  and  the 
rapidity  of  the  action,  Othello  for  the  progressive  interest 
and  powerful  alternations  of  feeling,  Hamlet  for  the  re- 
fined development  of  thought  and  sentiment.  If  the 
force  of  genius  shown  in  each  of  these  works  is  astonish- 
ing, their  variety  is  not  less  so.  They  are  like  different 
creations  of  the  same  mind,  not  one  of  which  has  the 
slightest  reference  to  the  rest.  This  distinctness  and 
originality  is  indeed  the  necessary  consequence  of  truth 
and  nature.    Shakespeare's  genius  alone  appeared  to  pos- 


208  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

8688  the  resources  of  nature.  He  is  "your  only  tragedy- 
maker."  His  plays  have  the  force  of  things  upon  the 
mind.  What  he  represents  is  brought  home  to  the  bosom 
as  a  part  of  our  experience,  implanted  in  the  memory  as  if 
we  had  known  the  places,  persons,  and  things  of  which 
he  treats.  Macbeth  is  like  a  record  of  a  preternatural  and 
tragical  event.  It  has  the  rugged  severity  of  an  old 
chronicle  with  all  that  the  imagination  of  the  poet  can 
engraft  upon  traditional  belief.  The  castle  of  Macbeth, 
round  which  "the  air  smells  wooingly,"  and  where  "the 
temple-haunting  martlet  builds,"  has  a  real  subsistence  in 
the  mind;  the  Weird  Sisters  meet  us  in  person  on  "the 
blasted  heath";  the  "air-drawn  dagger"  moves  slowly  be- 
fore our  eyes;  the  "gracious  Duncan,"  the  "blood-boul- 
tered  Banquo"  stand  before  us;  all  that  passed  through 
the  mind  of  Macbeth  passes,  without  the  loss  of  a  tittle, 
through  ours.  All  that  could  actually  take  place,  and 
all  that  is  possible  to  be  conceived,  what  was  said  and 
what  was  done,  the  workings  of  passion,  the  spells  of 
magic,  are  brought  before  us  with  the  same  absolute 
truth  and  vividness.  Shakespeare  excelled  in  the  open- 
ings of  his  plays :  ®  that  of  Macbeth  is  the  most  striking  of 
any.  The  wildness  of  the  scenery,  the  sudden  shifting 
of  the  situations  and  characters,  the  bustle,  the  expecta- 
tions excited,  are  equally  extraordinary.  From  the  first 
entrances  of  the  Witches  and  the  description  of  them  when 
they  meet  Macbeth, — 

What  are  these 
So  withered  and  so  wild  in  their  attire, 
That  look  not  like  the  inhabitants  of  th'  earth 
And  yet  are  on't? 

the  mind  is  prepared  for  all  that  follows. 

This  tragedy  is  alike  distinguished  for  the  lofty  imagi- 
nation it  displays,  and  for  the  tumultuous  vehemence  of 
the  action;  and  the  one  is  made  the  moving  principle  of 
the  other.  The  overwhelming  pressure  of  preternatural 
agency  urges  on  the  tide  of  human  passion  with  redoubled 
force.  Macbeth  himself  appears  driven  along  by  the  vio- 
lence of  his  fate  like  a  vessel  drifting  before  a  storm: 

•  Compare  Coleridge,  p.  151. 


HAZLITT  209 

he  reels  to  and  fro  like  a  drunken  man ;  he  staggers  \inder 
the  weight  of  his  own  purposes  and  the  suggestions  of 
others;  he  stands  at  bay  with  his  situation;  and  from 
the  superstitious  awe  and  breathless  suspense  into  which 
the  communications  of  the  Weird  Sisters  throw  him,  is 
hurried  on  with  daring  impatience  to  verify  their  pre- 
dictions, and  with  impious  and  bloody  hand  to  tear  aside 
the  veil  which  hides  the  uncertainty  of  the  future.  He 
is  not  equal  to  the  struggle  with  fate  and  conscience.  He 
now  **bends  up  each  corporal  instrument  to  the  terrible 
feat";  at  other  times  his  heart  misgives  him,  and  he 
is  cowed  and  abashed  by  his  success.  "The  deed,  no 
less  than  the  attempt,  confounds  him."  His  mind  is 
assailed  by  the  stings  of  remorse,  and  full  of  "preter- 
natural solicitings."  His  speeches  and  soliloquies  are 
dark  riddles  on  human  life,  baffling  solution,  and  en- 
tangling him  in  their  labyrinths.  In  thought  he  is  absent 
and  perplexed,  sudden  and  desperate  in  act,  from  a  dis- 
trust of  his  own  resolution.  His  energy  springs  from 
the  anxiety  and  agitation  of  his  mind.  His  blindly  rush- 
ing forward  on  the  objects  of  his  ambition  and  revenge, 
or  his  recoiling  from  them,  equally  betrays  the  harassed 
state  of  his  feelings.  This  part  of  his  character  is  ad- 
mirably set  off  by  being  brought  in  connection  with  that 
of  Lady  Macbeth,  whose  obdurate  strength  of  will  and 
masculine  firmness  give  her  the  ascendency  over  her  hus- 
band's faltering  virtue.  She  at  once  seizes  on  the  oppor- 
tunity that  offers  for  the  accomplishment  of  all  their 
wished-for  greatness,  and  never  flinches  from  her  object 
till  all  is  over.  The  magnitude  of  her  resolution  almost 
covers  the  magnitude  of  her  guilt.  She  is  a  great  bad 
woman,  whom  we  hate,  but  whom  we  fear  more  than  we 
hate.  She  does  not  excite  our  loathing  and  abhorrence 
like  Regan  and  Goneril.  She  is  only  wicked  to  gain  a 
great  end;  and  is  perhaps  more  distinguished  by  her 
commanding  presence  of  mind  and  inexorable  self-will, 
which  do  not  suffer  her  to  be  diverted  from  a  bad  purpose, 
when  once  formed,  by  weak  and  womanly  regrets,  than  by 
the  hardness  of  her  heart  or  want  of  natural  affections. 
The  impression  which  her  lofty  determination  of  char- 
acter makes  on  the  mind  of  Macbeth  is  well  described 
where  he  exclaims, — 


210  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Bring  forth  men-children  only; 
For  thy  undaunted  mettle  should  compose 
Nothing  but  males!  " 

Nor  do  the  pains  she  is  at  to  "screw  his  courage  to  the 
eticking-place,"  the  reproach  to  him,  not  to  be  "lost  so 
poorly  in  himself,"  the  assurance  that  "a  little  water 
clears  them  of  this  deed,"  show  anything  but  her  greater 
consistency  in  depravity.  Her  strong-nerved  ambition 
furnishes  ribs  of  steel  to  "the  sides  of  his  intent";  and 
she  is  herself  wound  up  to  the  execution  of  her  baneful 
project  with  the  same  unshrinking  fortitude  in  crime 
that  in  other  circumstances  she  would  probably  have 
shown  patience  in  suffering.  The  deliberate  sacrifice  of 
all  other  considerations  to  the  gaining  "for  their  future 
days  and  nights  sole  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom,"  by 
the  murder  of  Duncan,  is  gorgeously  expressed  in  her 
invocation  on  hearing  of  "his  fatal  entrance  under  her 
battlements" : 

Come  all  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here:    ' 
And  fill  me,  from  the  crown  to  th'  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty."  .  .  . 

When  she  first  hears  that  "Duncan  comes  there  to  sleep" 
she  is  so  overcome  by  the  news,  which  is  beyond  her 
utmost  expectations,  that  she  answers  the  messenger, 
"Thou'rt  mad  to  say  it":  and  on  receiving  her  husband's 
account  of  the  predictions  of  the  Witches,  conscious  of  his 
instability  of  purpose,  and  that  her  presence  is  necessary 
to  goad  him  on  to  the  consummation  of  his  promised 
greatness,  she  exclaims — 

Hie  thee  hither, 
That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear. 
And  chastise  with  the  valour  of  my  tongue 
All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round, 
Which  fate  and  metaphysical  aid  doth  seem 
To  have  thee  crowned  withal." 

This  swelling  exultation  and  keen  spirit  of  triumph,  this 
uncontrollable  eagerness  of  anticipation,  which  seems  to 

«•!,  vii,  72-74. 

"  I,  V,  41-44.     Hazlitt  continues  the  quotation   to  line  55. 

"  Ibid.,  26-31. 


HAZLITT  211 

dilate  her  form  and  take  possession  of  all  her  faculties, 
this  solid,  substantial,  flesh-and-blood  display  of  passion, 
exhibit  a  striking  contrast  to  the  cold,  abstracted,  gratui- 
tous, servile  malignity  of  the  Witches,  who  are  equally 
instrumental  in  urging  Macbeth  to  his  fate  for  the  mere 
love  of  mischief,  and  from  a  disinterested  delight  in 
deformity  and  cruelty.  They  are  hags  of  mischief,  ob- 
scene panders  to  iniquity,  malicious  from  their  impotence 
of  enjoyment,  enamored  of  destruction,  because  they  are 
themselves  unreal,  abortive,  half-existences — who  become 
sublime  from  their  exemption  from  all  human  sympathies 
and  contempt  for  all  human  affairs,  as  Lady  Macbeth  does 
by  the  force  of  passion !  Her  fault  seems  to  have  been  an 
excess  of  that  strong  principle  of  self-interest  and  family 
aggrandizement,  not  amenable  to  the  common  feelings  of 
compassion  and  justice,  which  is  so  marked  a  feature  in 
barbarous  nations  and  times.  A  passing  reflection  of  this 
kind,  on  the  resemblance  of  the  sleeping  king  to  her  father, 
alone  prevents  her  from  slaying  Duncan  with  her  own 
hand. 

In  speaking  of  the  character  of  Lady  Macbeth,  we 
ought  not  to  pass  over  Mrs.  Siddons's  manner  of  acting 
that  part.  We  can  conceive  of  nothing  grander.  It  was 
something  above  nature.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  a  being 
of  a  superior  order  had  dropped  from  a  higher  sphere  to 
awe  the  world  with  the  majesty  of  her  appearance.  Power 
was  seated  on  her  brow,  passion  emanated  from  her  breast 
as  from  a  shrine;  she  was  tragedy  personified.  In  coming 
on  in  the  sleeping  scene,  her  eyes  were  open,  but  their 
sense  was  shut.  She  was  like  a  person  bewildered  and 
unconscious  of  what  she  did.  Her  lips  moved  involun- 
tarily— all  her  gestures  were  involuntary  and  mechanical. 
She  glided  on  and  oflF  the  stage  like  an  apparition.  To 
have  seen  her  in  that  character  was  an  event  in  every 
one's  life,  not  to  be  forgotten. 

The  dramatic  beauty  of  the  character  of  Duncan,  which 
excites  the  respect  and  pity  even  of  his  murderers,  has 
been  often  pointed  out.  It  forms  a  picture  of  itself.  An 
instance  of  the  author's  power  of  giving  a  striking  effect 
to  a  common  reflection,  by  the  manner  of  introducing  it, 
occurs  in  a  speech  of  Duncan,  complaining  of  his  having 
been  deceived  in  his  opinion  of  the  Thane  of  Cawdor, 


212  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

at  the  very  moment  that  he  is  expressing  the  most  un- 
bounded confidence  in  the  loyalty  and  services  of  Macbeth. 

There  is  no  art 
To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face: 
He  was  a  gentleman  on  Whom  I  built 
An  absolute  trust.     O  worthiest  cousin! 
The  sin  of  my  ingratitude  even  now 
Was  great  upon  me,  etc." 

Another  passage  to  show  that  Shakespeare  lost  sight  of 
nothing  that  could  in  any  way  give  relief  or  heightening 
to  his  subject,  is  the  conversation  which  takes  place  be- 
tween Banquo  and  Fleance  immediately  before  the  mur- 
der-scene of  Duncan. 

Banquo.    How  goes  the  night,  boy? 

Fleance.    The  moon  is  down:  I  have  not  heard  the  clock. 

Banquo.    And  she  goes  down  at  twelve. 

Fleance.     I  take  it  'tis  later,  sir. 

Banquo.    Hold,  take  my  sword.    There's  husbandry  in  heaven. 
Their  candles  are  all  out, — 
A  heavy  summons  lies  like  lead  upon  me, 
And  yet  I  would  not  sleep:  merciful  Powers, 
Restrain  in  me  the  cursed  thoughts  that  nature 
Gives  way  to  in  repose." 

In  like  manner,  a  fine  idea  is  given  of  the  gloomy  com- 
ing on  of  evening,  just  as  Banquo  is  going  to  be  as- 
sassinated. 

Light  thickens,  and  the  crow 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood. 

Now  spurs  the  lated  traveler  apace 
To  gain  the  timely  inn.'* 

Macbeth  (generally  speaking)  is  done  upon  a  stronger 
and  more  systematic  principle  of  contrast  than  any  other 
of  Shakespeare's  plays.  It  moves  upon  the  verge  of  an 
abyss,  and  is  a  constant  struggle  between  life  and  death. 
The  action  is  desperate  and  the  reaction  is  dreadful.  It 
is  a  huddling  together  of  fierce  extremes,  a  war  of  opposite 

"I,  It,  11-16. 

"  II,  1,   1-9. 

»III,  II,  80-51;  111,  6-7. 


HAZLITT  318 

natures  which  of  them  shall  destroy  the  other.  There  is 
nothing  but  what  has  a  violent  end  or  violent  beginnings. 
The  lights  and  shades  are  laid  on  with  a  determined  hand ; 
the  transitions  from  triumph  and  despair,  from  the  height 
of  terror  to  the  repose  of  death,  are  sudden  and  startling; 
every  passion  brings  in  its  fellow-contrary,  and  the 
thoughts  pitch  and  jostle  against  each  other  as  in  the 
dark.  The  whole  play  is  an  unruly  chaos  of  strange  and 
forbidden  things,  where  the  ground  rocks  under  our  feet. 
Shakespeare's  genius  here  took  its  full  swing,  and  trod 
upon  the  farthest  bounds  of  nature  and  passion.  This 
circumstance  will  account  for  the  abruptness  and  violent 
antitheses  of  the  style,  the  throes  and  labor  which  run 
through  the  expression,  and  from  defects  will  turn  them 
into  beauties.  "So  fair  and  foul  a  day  I  have  not  seen." 
etc.  "Such  welcome  and  unwelcome  news  together," 
"Men's  lives  are  like  the  flowers  in  their  caps,  dying  or  ere 
they  sicken."  *Xook  like  the  innocent  flower,  but  be  the 
serpent  under  it."  The  scene  before  the  castle  gate  fol- 
lows the  appearance  of  the  Witches  on  the  heath,  and  is 
followed  by  a  midnight  murder.  Duncan  is  cut  off  be- 
times by  treason  leagued  with  witchcraft,  and  Macduff  is 
ripped  untimely  from  his  mother's  womb  to  avenge  his 
death.  Macbeth,  after  the  death  of  Banquo,  wishes  for 
his  presence  in  extravagant  terms,  "To  him  and  all  we 
thirst,"  and  when  his  ghost  appears,  cries  out,  "A vaunt 
and  quit  my  sight,"  and  being  gone,  he  is  "himself 
again."  Macbeth  resolves  to  get  rid  of  Macduff,  that  "he 
may  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder";  and  cheers  his  wife  on 
the  doubtful  intelligence  of  Banquo's  taking-off  with  the 
encouragement:  "Then  be  thou  jocund:  ere  the  bat  has 
flown  his  cloistered  flight,  ere  to  black  Hecate's  summons 
the  shard-born  beetle  has  rung  night's  yawning  peal,  there 
shall  be  done — a  deed  of  dreadful  note."  ^^  In  Lady 
Macbeth's  speech,  "Had  he  not  resembled  my  father  as 
he  slept,  I  had  done  't,"  ^^  there  is  murder  and  filial  piety 
together;  and  in  urging  him  to  fulfil  his  vengeance  against 
the  defenseless  king,  her  thoughts  spare  the  blood  neither 
of  infants  nor  old  age.  The  description  of  the  Witches 
is  full  of  the  same  contradictory  principle;  they  "rejoice 

«III,    11,    40-44. 
"II.  11,  13-14. 


214  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

when  good  kings  bleed,"  they  are  neither  of  the  earth  nor 
the  air,  but  both ;  "they  should  be  women,  but  their  beards 
forbid  it";  they  take  all  the  pains  possible  to  lead  Mac- 
beth on  to  the  height  of  his  ambition,  only  to  betray  him 
"in  deeper  consequence,"  and  after  showing  him  all  the 
pomp  of  their  art,  discover  their  malignant  delight  in  his 
disappointed  hopes,  by  that  bitter  taunt,  "Why  stands 
Macbeth  thus  amazedly?"  We  might  multiply  such  in- 
stances everywhere. 

The  leading  features  in  the  character  of  Macbeth  are 
striking  enough,  and  they  form  what  may  be  thought 
at  first  only  a  bold,  rude,  Gothic  outline.  By  comparing 
it  with  other  characters  of  the  same  author  we  shall  per- 
ceive the  absolute  truth  and  identity  which  is  observed 
in  the  midst  of  the  giddy  whirl  and  rapid  career  of  events. 
Macbeth  in  Shakespeare  no  more  loses  his  identity  of 
character  in  the  fluctuations  of  fortune  or  the  storm  of 
passion,  than  Macbeth  in  himself  would  have  lost  the 
identity  of  his  person.  Thus  he  is  as  distinct  a  being 
from  Richard  III  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine,  though 
these  two  characters  in  common  hands,  and  indeed  in  the 
hands  of  any  other  poet,  would  have  been  a  repetition  of 
the  same  general  idea,  more  or  less  exaggerated.  For  both 
are  tyrants,  usurpers,  murderers,  both  aspiring  and  ambi- 
tious, both  courageous,  cruel,  treacherous.  But  Richard 
is  cruel  from  nature  and  constitution.  Macbeth  becomes 
80  from  accidental  circumstances.  Richard  is  from 
his  birth  deformed  in  body  and  mind,  and  naturally 
incapable  of  good.  Macbeth  is  full  of  "the  milk  of 
human  kindness,"  is  frank,  sociable,  generous.  He  is 
tempted  to  the  commission  of  guilt  by  golden  opportuni- 
ties, by  the  instigations  of  his  wife,  and  by  prophetic 
warnings.  Fate  and  metaphysical  aid  conspire  against 
his  virtue  and  his  loyalty.  Richard  on  the  contrary  needs 
no  prompter,  but  wades  through  a  series  of  crimes  to  the 
height  of  his  ambition  from  the  ungovernable  violence  of 
his  temper  and  a  reckless  love  of  mischief.  He  is  never 
gay  but  in  the  prospect  or  in  the  success  of  his  villainies : 
Macbeth  is  full  of  horror  at  the  thoughts  of  the  murder 
of  Duncan,  which  he  is  with  difficulty  prevailed  on  to 
commit,  and  of  remorse  after  its  perpetration.  Richard 
has  no  mixture  of  common  humanity  in  his  composition. 


HAZLITT  215 

no  regard  to  kindred  or  posterity,  he  owns  no  fellowship 
with  others,  he  is  "himself  alone."  Macbeth  is  not  desti- 
tute of  feelings  of  sympathy,  is  accessible  to  pity,  is  even 
made  in  some  measure  the  dupe  of  his  uxoriousness, 
ranks  the  loss  of  friends,  of  the  cordial  love  of  his  fol- 
lowers, and  of  his  good  name,  among  the  causes  which 
have  made  him  weary  of  life,  and  regrets  that  he  has 
ever  seized  the  crown  by  unjust  means,  since  he  cannot 
transmit  it  to  his  posterity — 

For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  fil'd  my  mind — 

For  them  the  gracious  Duncan  have  I  murther'd,  .  .  . 

To  make  them  kings,  the  seed  of  Banquo  kings." 

In  the  agitation  of  his  mind,  he  envies  those  whom  he 
has  sent  to  peace.  "Duncan  is  in  his  grave;  after  life's 
fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well."  It  is  true,  he  becomes  more 
callous  as  he  plunges  deeper  in  guilt,  "direness  is  thus 
rendered  familiar  to  his  slaughterous  thoughts,"  and  he 
in  the  end  anticipates  his  wife  in  the  boldness  and  bloodi- 
ness of  his  enterprises,  while  she,  for  want  of  the  same 
stimulus  of  action,  "is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies 
that  rob  her  of  her  rest,"  goes  mad  and  dies.  Macbeth 
endeavors  to  escape  from  reflection  on  his  crimes  by  re- 
pelling their  consequences,  and  banishes  remorse  for  the 
past  by  the  meditation  of  future  mischief.  This  is  not 
the  principle  of  Richard's  cruelty,  which  displays  the 
wanton  malice  of  a  fiend  as  much  as  the  frailty  of  human 
passion.  Macbeth  is  goaded  on  to  acts  of  violence  and 
retaliation  by  necessity;  to  Richard,  blood  is  a  pastime. 
There  are  other  decisive  differences  inherent  in  the  two 
characters.  Richard  may  be  regarded  as  a  man  of  the 
world,  a  plotting,  hardened  knave,  wholly  regardless  of 
everything  but  his  own  ends,  and  the  means  to  secure 
them.  Not  so  Macbeth.  The  superstitions  of  the  age, 
the  rude  state  of  society,  the  local  scenery  and  customs, 
all  give  a  wildness  and  imaginary  grandeur  to  his  char- 
acter. From  the  strangeness  of  the  events  that  surround 
him,  he  is  full  of  amazement  and  fear;  and  stands  in 
doubt  between  the  world  of  reality  and  the  world  of 
fancy.    He  sees  sights  not  shown  to  mortal  eye,  and  hears 

"III,  1,  65-66,  70. 


216  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

unearthly  music.  All  is  tumult  and  disorder  within  and 
without  his  mind;  his  purposes  recoil  upon  himself,  are 
broken  and  disjointed;  he  is  the  double  thrall  of  his 
passions  and  his  evil  destiny.  Richard  is  not  a  char- 
acter either  of  imagination  or  pathos,  but  of  pure  self-will. 
There  is  no  conflict  of  opposite  feelings  in  his  breast. 
The  apparitions  which  he  sees  only  haunt  him  in  his 
sleep ;  nor  does  he  live,  like  Macbeth,  in  a  waking  dream. 
Macbeth  has  considerable  energy  and  manliness  of  char- 
acter; but  then  he  is  "subject  to  all  the  skyey  influences." 
He  is  sure  of  nothing  but  the  present  moment.  Richard 
in  the  busy  turbulence  of  his  projects  never  loses  his  self- 
possession,  and  makes  use  of  every  circumstance  that 
happens  as  an  instrument  of  his  long-reaching  designs.  In 
his  last  extremity  we  can  only  regard  him  as  a  wild  beast 
taken  in  the  toils;  while  we  never  lose  our  concern  for 
Macbeth;  and  he  calls  back  all  our  sympathy  by  that  fine 
close  of  thoughtful  melancholy — 

My  way  of  life 
Is  fallen  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf; 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age. 
As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have;  but  in  their  stead, 
Curses  not  loud  but  deep,  mouth-honour,  breath 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  and  dare  not." 

We  can  conceive  a  common  actor  to  play  Richard  tol- 
erably well;  we  can  conceive  no  one  to  play  Macbeth 
properly,  or  to  look  like  a  man  that  had  encountered  the 
Weird  Sisters.  All  the  actors  that  we  have  ever  seen 
appear  as  if  they  had  encountered  them  on  the  boards 
of  Covent  Garden  or  Drury  Lane,  but  not  on  the  heath 
at  Fores,  and  as  if  they  did  not  believe  what  they  had 
seen.  The  Witches  of  Macbeth  indeed  are  ridiculous  on 
the  modern  stage,  and  we  doubt  if  the  Furies  of  JSschylus 
would  be  more  respected.  The  progress  of  manners  and 
knowledge  has  an  influence  on  the  stage,  and  will  in  time 
perhaps  destroy  both  tragedy  and  comedy.  Filch's  pick- 
ing pockets  in  the  Beggar's  Opera  *°  is  not  so  good  a  jest 

"V,  in.  22-28. 

^  A  comic  opera,  the  libretto  by  Jobn  Qajr,  first  produced  in 
1728. 


HAZLITT  217 

as  it  used  to  be ;  by  the  force  of  the  police  and  of  philoso- 
phy, Lillo's  murders  ^^  and  the  ghosts  in  Shakespeare  will 
become  obsolete.  At  last  there  will  be  nothing  left,  good 
nor  bad,  to  be  desired  or  dreaded,  on  the  theater  or  in 
real  life. 

A  question  has  been  started  with  respect  to  the  origi- 
nality of  Shakespeare's  Witches,  which  has  been  well 
answered  by  Mr.  Lamb  in  his  notes  to  the  Specimens  of 
Early  Dramatic  Poetry: 

"Though  some  resemblance  may  be  traced  between  the 
charms  in  Macbeth  and  the  incantations  in  this  play 
{The  Witch  of  Middleton],  which  is  supposed  to  have 
preceded  it,  this  coincidence  will  not  detract  much  from 
the  originality  of  Shakespeare.  His  witches  are  distin- 
guished from  the  witches  of  Middleton  by  essential  dif- 
ferences. These  are  creatures  to  whom  man  or  woman 
plotting  some  dire  mischief  might  resort  for  occasional 
consultation.  Those  originate  deeds  of  blood,  and  begin 
bad  impulses  to  men.  From  the  moment  that  their  eyes 
first  meet  with  Macbeth's,  he  is  spell-bound.  That  meet- 
ing sways  his  destiny.  He  can  never  break  the  fascina- 
tion. These  witches  can  hurt  the  body ;  those  have  power 
over  the  soul.  Hecate  in  Middleton  has  a  son,  a  low 
buffoon:  the  hags  of  Shakespeare  have  neither  child  of 
their  own,  nor  seem  to  be  descended  from  any  parent. 
They  are  foul  anomalies,  of  whom  we  know  not  whence 
they  are  sprung,  nor  whether  they  have  beginning  or 
ending.  As  they  are  without  human  passions,  so  they 
seem  to  be  without  human  relations.  They  come  with 
thunder  and  lightning,  and  vanish  to  airy  music.  This 
is  all  we  know  of  them.  Except  Hecate,  they  have  no 
names,  which  heightens  their  mysteriousness.  The  names, 
and  some  of  the  properties,  which  Middleton  has  given 
to  his  hags  excite  smiles.  The  Weird  Sisters  are  serious 
things.  Their  presence  cannot  co-exist  with  mirth.  But, 
in  a  lesser  degree,  the  witches  of  Middleton  are  fine  crea- 
tions. Their  power  too  is  in  some  measure  over  the  mind. 
They  raise  jars,  jealousies,  strifes,  like  a  thick  scurf  o'er 
life." 

*^  See  note  od  p.  175. 


218  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

FALSTATP 

If  Shakespeare's  fondness  for  the  ludicrous  sometimes 
led  to  faults  in  his  tragedies  (which  was  not  often  the 
case),  he  has  made  us  amends  by  the  character  of  FalstaflF. 
This  is  perhaps  the  most  substantial  comic  character  that 
ever  was  invented.  Sir  John  carries  a  most  portly  pres- 
ence in  the  mind's  eye,  and  in  him,  not  to  speak  it  pro- 
fanely, "we  behold  the  fulness  of  the  spirit  of  wit  and 
humor  bodily."  We  are  as  well  acquainted  with  his  per- 
son as  his  mind,  and  his  jokes  come  upon  us  with  double 
force  and  relish  from  the  quantity  of  flesh  through  which 
they  make  their  way,  as  he  shakes  his  fat  sides  with 
laughter,  or  **lards  the  lean  earth  as  he  walks  along." 
Other  comic  characters  seem,  if  we  approach  and  handle 
them,  to  resolve  themselves  into  air,  "into  thin  air";  but 
this  is  embodied  and  palpable  to  the  grossest  apprehen- 
sion; it  lies  "three  fingers  deep  upon  the  ribs,"  it  plays 
about  the  lungs  and  the  diaphragm  with  all  the  force  of 
animal  enjoyment.  His  body  is  like  a  good  estate  to  his 
mind,  from  which  he  receives  rents  and  revenues  of  profit 
and  pleasure  in  kind,  according  to  its  extent  and  the  rich- 
ness of  the  soil. 

Wit  is  often  a  meager  substitute  for  pleasurable  sensa- 
tion; an  effusion  of  spleen  and  petty  spite  at  the  com- 
forts of  others,  from  feeling  none  in  itself.  Falstaff's  wit 
is  an  emanation  of  a  fine  constitution;  an  exuberance  of 
good  humor  and  good  nature;  an  overflowing  of  his  love 
of  laughter  and  good-fellowship;  a  giving  vent  to  his 
heart's  ease,  and  over-contentment  with  himself  and  others. 
He  would  not  be  in  character,  if  he  were  not  so  fat  as  he 
is;  for  there  is  the  greatest  keeping  in  the  boundless  lux- 
ury of  his  imagination  and  the  pampered  self-indulgence 
of  his  physical  appetites.  He  manures  and  nourishes  his 
mind  with  jests,  as  he  does  his  body  with  sack  and  sugar. 
He  carves  out  his  jokes,  as  he  would  a  capon  or  a  haunch 
of  venison,  where  there  is  "cut  and  come  again,"  and 
pours  out  upon  them  the  oil  of  gladness.  His  tong^ue 
drops  fatness,  and  in  the  chambers  of  his  brain  "it  snows 
of  meat  and  drink."  ^^    He  keeps  up  perpetual  holiday  and 

"As  Chaucer  said  of  the  Franklin's  house  (Prologue  to  Can- 
terbury Talcs,  line  345). 


HAZLITT  219 

open  house,  and  we  live  with  him  in  a  round  of  invita- 
tions to  a  rump  and  dozen. 

Yet  we  are  not  to  suppose  that  he  was  a  mere  sensualist. 
All  this  is  as  much  in  imagination  as  in  reality.  His 
sensuality  does  not  engross  and  stupefy  his  other  facul- 
ties, but  "ascends  me  into  the  brain,  clears  away  all  the 
dull,  crude  vapours  that  environ  it,  and  makes  it  full  of 
nimble,  fiery,  and  delectable  shapes."  ^3  His  imagination 
keeps  up  the  ball  after  his  senses  have  done  with  it. 
He  seems  to  have  even  a  greater  enjoyment  of  the  free- 
dom from  restraint,  of  good  cheer,  of  his  ease,  of  his 
vanity,  in  the  ideal  exaggerated  description  which  he 
gives  of  them,  than  in  fact.  He  never  fails  to  enrich 
his  discourse  with  allusions  to  eating  and  drinking,  but 
we  never  see  him  at  table.  He  carries  his  own  larder 
about  with  him,  and  he  is  himself  "a  tun  of  man."  His- 
pulling  out  the  bottle  in  the  field  of  battle  ^*  is  a  joke  to 
show  his  contempt  for  glory  accompanied  with  danger^ 
his  systematic  adherence  to  his  Epicurean  philosophy  in 
the  most  trying  circumstances.  Again,  such  is  his  de- 
liberate exaggeration  of  his  own  vices,  that  it  does  not 
seem  quite  certain  whether  the  account  of  his  hostess's 
bill,  found  in  his  pocket,^'  with  such  out-of-the-way  charge 
for  capons  and  sack  with  only  one  halfpenny-worth  of 
bread,  was  not  put  there  by  himself  as  a  trick  to  humor 
the  jest  upon  his  favorite  propensities,  and  as  a  conscious 
caricature  of  himself.  He  is  represented  as  a  liar,  a 
braggart,  a  coward,  a  glutton,  etc.,  and  yet  we  are  not 
offended  but  delighted  with  him;  for  he  is  all  these  as 
much  to  amuse  others  as  to  gratify  himself.  He  openly 
assumes  all  these  characters  to  show  the  humorous  part 
of  them.  The  unrestrained  indulgence  of  his  own  ease, 
appetites,  and  convenience,  has  neither  malice  nor  hy- 
pocrisy in  it.     In  a  word,  he  is  an  actor  in  himself  almost 

»»«  Henrv  IV,  IV.  ill,  105. 

**  1  Henry  IV,  V,  Hi.  A  somewhat  similar  interpretation  of 
the  scene  had  been  made  by  Maurice  Mor^nnn.  in  his  Eatau  on 
the  Dramatic  Character  of  Sir  John  Falataff  (1777)  :  "A  sober 
character  would  not  Jest  on  such  an  occasion,  but  a  coward 
could  not ;  he  would  neither  have  the  inclination  or  the  power." 
For  an  account  of  the  various  critical  attempts  to  rehabilitate 
FalstafF's  character,  from  Morgann'a  and  Ilazlitt's  to  those  of 
later  times,  see  Dr.  B.  K.  Stoll's  essay  on  "Falstaff,"  Modern 
Philology,  xll,  197. 

» IMd..  II,  iv,  585. 


220  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

as  much  as  upon  the  stage,  and  we  no  more  object  to  the 
character  of  Falstaff  in  a  moral  point  of  view  fhan  we 
should  think  of  bringing  an  excellent  comedian,  who 
should  represent  him  to  the  life,  before  one  of  the  police 
offices.  We  only  consider  the  number  of  pleasant  lights 
in  which  he  puts  certain  foibles  (the  more  pleasant  as  they 
are  opposed  to  the  received  rules  and  necessary  restraints 
of  society),  and  do  not  trouble  ourselves  about  the  con- 
sequences resulting  from  them,  for  no  mischievous  con- 
sequences do  result.  Sir  John  is  old  as  well  as  fat,  which 
gives  a  melancholy  retrospective  tinge  to  the  character, 
and,  by  the  disparity  between  his  inclinations  and  his 
capacity  for  enjoyment,  makes  it  stiU  more  ludicrous  and 
fantastical. 

The  secret  of  Falstaff's  wit  is  for  the  most  part  a 
masterly  presence  of  mind,  an  absolute  self-possession, 
which  nothing  can  disturb.  His  repartees  are  involun- 
tary suggestions  of  his  self-love, — instinctive  evasions  of 
every  thing  that  threatens  to  interrupt  the  career  of  his 
triumphant  jollity  and  self-complacency.  His  very  size 
floats  him  out  of  all  his  difficulties  in  a  sea  of  rich  con- 
ceits, and  he  turns  round  on  the  pivot  of  his  convenience, 
with  every  occasion  and  at  a  moment's  warning.  His 
natural  repugnance  to  every  unpleasant  thought  or  cir- 
cumstance of  itself  makes  light  of  objections,  and  pro- 
vokes the  most  extravagant  and  licentious  answers  in  his 
own  justification.  His  indifference  to  truth  puts  no  check 
upon  his  invention,  and  the  more  improbable  and  un- 
expected his  contrivances  are,  the  more  happily  does  he 
seem  to  be  delivered  of  them,  the  anticipation  of  their 
effect  acting  as  a  stimulus  to  the  gayety  of  his  fancy. 
The  success  of  one  adventurous  sally  gives  him  spirit 
to  undertake  another;  he  deals  always  in  round  numbers, 
and  his  exaggerations  and  excuses  are  "open,  palpable, 
monstrous  as  the  father  that  begets  them." 


HAZLITT  «ai 

ON  POETRY  IN  GENERAL 

William  Hazlitt 

[The  introductory  lecture  of  a  series  given  at  the  Surrey 
Institution  in  1818,  and  published  in  the  same  year  under  the 
title  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets.} 

The  best  general  notion  which  I  can  give  of  poetry  is, 
that  it  is  the  natural  impression  of  any  object  or  event, 
by  its  vividness  exciting  an  involuntary  movement  of 
imagination  and  passion,  and  producing,  by  sjrmpathy,  a 
certain  modulation  of  the  voice,  or  sounds,  expressing  it. 

In  treating  of  poetry,  I  shall  speak  first  of  the  sub- 
ject-matter of  it,  next  of  the  forms  of  expression  to  which 
it  gives  birth,  and  afterwards  of  its  connection  with 
harmony  of  sound. 

Poetrj  is  the  language  of  the  imagination  and  the  pas- 
sions. It  relates  to  whatever  gives  immediate  pleasure 
or  pain  to  the  human  mind.  It  comes  home  to  the  bosoms 
and  businesses  of  men;  for  nothing  but  what  so  comes 
home  to  them  in  the  most  general  and  intelligible  shape 
can  be  a  subject  for  poetry.  Poetry  is  the  universal  lan- 
guage which  the  heart  holds  with  nature  and  itself.  He 
who  has  a  contempt  for  poetry  cannot  have  much  respect 
for  himself,  or  for  anything  else.  It  is  not  a  mere  frivo- 
lous accomplishment,  as  some  persons  have  been  led  to 
imagine, — the  trifling  amusement  of  a  few  idle  readers 
or  leisure  hours;  it  has  been  the  study  and  delight  of 
mankind  in  all  ages.  Many  people  suppose  that  poetry 
is  something  to  be  found  only  in  books,  contained  in 
lines  of  ten  syllables,  with  like  endings;  but  wherever 
there  is  a  sense  of  beauty,  or  power,  or  harmony,  as  in 
the  motion  of  a  wave  of  the  sea,  in  the  growth  of  a  flower 
that  "spreads  its  sweet  leaves  to  the  air,  and  dedicates 
its  beauty  to  the  sun," — there  is  poetry,  in  its  birth.  If 
history  is  a  grave  study,  poetry  may  be  said  to  be  a 
graver:  its  materials  lie  deeper,  and  are  spread  wider. 
History  treats,  for  the  most  part,  of  the  cumbrous  and 
unwieldy  masses  of  things,  the  empty  cases  in  which 
the  affairs  of  the  world  are  packed,  under  the  heads  of 


222  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

intrigue  or  war,  in  different  states,  and  from  century  to 
century :  but  there  is  no  thought  or  feeling  that  can  have 
entered  into  the  mind  of  man,  which  he  would  be  eager 
to  communicate  to  others,  or  which  they  would  listen  to 
with  delight,  that  is  not  a  fit  subject  for  poetry.  It  is 
not  a  branch  of  authorship:  it  is  "the  sutff  of  which  our 
life  is  made."  The  rest  is  "mere  oblivion,"  a  dead  letter: 
for  all  that  is  worth  remembering  in  life  is  the  poetry 
of  it.  Fear  is  poetry,  hope  is  poetry,  love  is  poetry,  hatred 
is  poetry;  contempt,  jealousy,  remorse,  admiration,  won- 
der, pity,  despair,  or  madness,  are  all  poetry.  Poetry  is 
that  fine  particle  within  us,  that  expands,  rarefies,  refines, 
raises  our  whole  being;  without  it  ''man's  life  is  as  poor 
as  beast's."  Man  is  a  poetical  animal;  and  those  of  us 
who  do  not  study  the  principles  of  poetry  act  upon  them 
all  our  lives,  like  Moliere's  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme,  who 
had  always  spoken  prose  without  knowing  it.  The  child 
is  a  poet  in  fact,  when  he  first  plays  at  hide-and-seek,  or 
repeats  the  story  of  Jack  the  Giant-killer;  the  shepherd- 
boy  is  a  poet,  when  he  first  crowns  his  mistress  with  a 
garland  of  fiowers;  the  countryman,  when  he  stops  to 
look  at  the  rainbow;  the  city  apprentice,  when  he  gazes 
after  the  Lord  Mayor's  show;  the  miser,  when  he  hugs 
his  gold;  the  courtier,  who  builds  his  hopes  upon  a  smile; 
the  savage,  who  paints  his  idol  with  blood;  the  slave, 
who  worships  a  tyrant,  or  the  tyrant,  who  fancies  him- 
self a  god; — the  vain,  the  ambitious,  the  proud,  the  chol- 
eric man,  the  hero  and  the  coward,  the  beggar  and  the 
king,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  young  and  the  old,  all 
live  in  a  world  of  their  own  making;  and  the  poet  does 
no  more  than  describe  what  all  the  others  think  and  act. 
If  his  art  is  folly  and  madness,  it  is  folly  and  madness 
at  second  hand.  "There  is  warrant  for  it."  Poets  alone 
have  not  "such  seething  brains,  such  shaping  fantasies, 
that  apprehend  more  than  cooler  reason"  can. 

The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet 

Are  of  imagination  all  compact. 

One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold; 

That  is,  the  madman.     The  lover,  all  as  frantiOi 

Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt. 

The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heavexi, 


HAZLITT  228 

And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 

The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 

Turns  them  to  shapes  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 

A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 

Such   tricks   hath   strong   imagination.* 

If  poetry  is  a  dream,  the  business  of  life  is  much  the 
same.  If  it  is  a  fiction,  made  up  of  what  we  wish  things 
to  be,  and  fancy  that  they  are  because  we  wish  them  so, 
there  is  no  other  nor  better  reality.  Ariosto  has  de- 
scribed the  loves  of  Angelica  and  Medoro :  ^  but  was  not 
Medoro,  who  carved  the  name  of  his  mistress  on  the 
barks  of  trees,  as  much  enamored  of  her  charms  as  he? 
Homer  has  celebrated  the  anger  of  Achilles:  but  was  not 
the  hero  as  mad  as  the  poet?  Plato  banished  the  poets 
from  his  Commonwealth,*  lest  their  descriptions  of  the 
natural  man  should  spoil  his  mathematical  man,  who  was 
to  be  without  passions  and  affections,  who  was  neither 
to  laugh  nor  weep,  to  feel  sorrow  nor  anger,  to  be  cast 
down  nor  elated  by  anything.  This  was  a  chimera,  how- 
ever, which  never  existed  but  in  the  brain  of  the  inventor; 
and  Homer's  poetical  world  has  outlived  Plato's  philo- 
sophical Republic. 

Poetry,  then,  is  an  imitation  of  nature,  but  the  imagina- 
tion and  the  passions  are  a  part  of  man's  nature.  We 
shape  things  according  to  our  wishes  and  fancies,  with- 
out poetry;  but  poetry  is  the  most  emphatical  language 
that  can  be  found  for  those  creations  of  the  mind  "which 
ecstasy  is  very  cunning  in."  Neither  a  mere  description 
of  natural  objects,  nor  a  mere  delineation  of  natural  feel- 
ings, however  distinct  or  forcible,  constitutes  the  ultimate 
end  and  aim  of  poetry,  without  the  heightenings  of  the 
imagination.  The  light  of  poetry  is  not  only  a  direct 
but  also  a  reflected  light,  that,  while  it  shows  us  the  ob- 
ject, throws  a  sparkling  radiance  on  all  around  it:  the 
flame  of  the  passions,  communicated  to  the  imagination, 
reveals  to  us,  as  with  a  flash  of  lightning,  the  inmost 

» Midfummer  Night's  Dream,  V,  1,  7-18. 

•  In  the  Orlando  Furioto. 

*  See  The  Republic.  Book  x.  "Poetry,"  said  Plato,  "feeds  and 
waters  the  passions  Instead  of  drying?  them  up :  she  lets  them 
rale,  although  they  ought  to  be  controlled  If  mankind  are  ever 
to  increase  In  happiness  and  virtue."  (Jowett  translation,  ill, 
822.) 


224  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

recesses  of  thought,  and  pentrates  our  whole  being. 
Poetry  represents  forms  chiefly  as  they  suggest  other 
forms;  feelings,  as  they  suggest  forms  or  other  feel- 
ings. Poetry  puts  a  spirit  of  life  and  motion  into 
the  universe.  It  describes  the  flowing,  not  the  fixed. 
It  does  not  define  the  limits  of  sense,  or  analyze 
the  distinctions  of  the  understanding,  but  signifies 
the  excess  of  the  imagination  beyond  the  actual  or 
ordinary  impression  of  any  object  or  feeling.  The  poet- 
ical impression  of  any  object  is  that  uneasy,  exquisite 
sense  of  beauty  or  power  that  cannot  be  contained  within 
itself;  that  is  impatient  of  all  limit;  that  (as  flame  bends 
to  flame)  strives  to  link  itself  to  some  other  image  of 
kindred  beauty  or  grandeur ;  to  enshrine  itself,  as  it  were, 
in  the  highest  forms  of  fancy,  and  to  relieve  the  aching 
sense  of  pleasure  by  expressing  it  in  the  boldest  manner, 
and  by  the  most  striking  examples  of  the  same  quality 
in  other  instances.  Poetry,  according  to  Lord  Bacon,  for 
this  reason,  "has  something  divine  in  it,  because  it  raises 
the  mind  and  hurries  it  into  sublimity,  by  conforming 
the  shows  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  soul,  instead  of 
subjecting  the  soul  to  external  things,  as  reason  and 
history  do."  *  It  is  strictly  the  language  of  the  imagina- 
tion; and  the  imagination  is  that  faculty  which  repre- 
sents objects,  not  as  they  are  in  themselves,  but  as  they 
are  moulded  by  other  thoughts  and  feelings,  into  an 
infinite  variety  of  shapes  and  combinations  of  power. 
This  language  is  not  the  less  true  to  nature,  because  it  is 
false  in  point  of  fact;  but  so  much  the  more  true  and 
natural,  if  it  conveys  the  impression  which  the  object 
under  the  influence  of  passion  makes  on  the  mind.  Let 
an  object,  for  instance,  be  presented  to  the  senses  in  a 
state  of  agitation  or  fear — and  the  imagination  will  dis- 
tort or  magnify  the  object,  and  convert  it  into  the  like- 
ness of  whatever  is  most  proper  to  encourage  the  fear. 
"Our  eyes  are  made  the  fools"  of  our  other  faculties.  This 
is  the  universal  law  of  the  imagination, 

That  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  joy. 
It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy; 

*  Advancement  of  Learning,  Book  ii. 


I 


HAZLITT  985 

Or  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear, 
How  easy  is  a  bush  suppos'd  a  bear !  • 

When  lachimo  says  of  Imogen, 

The  flame  o'  th'  taper 
Bows  toward  her,  and  would  under-peep  her  lids 
To  see  the  enclosed  lights,* 

this  passionate  interpretation  of  the  motion  of  the  flame 
to  accord  with  the  speaker's  own  feelings,  is  true  poetry. 
The  lover,  equally  with  the  poet,  speaks  of  the  auburn 
tresses  of  his  mistress  as  locks  of  shining  gold.  We 
compare  a  man  of  gigantic  stature  to  a  tower:  not  that 
he  is  anything  like  so  large,  but  because  the  excess  of 
his  size  beyond  what  we  are  accustomed  to  expect,  or  the 
usual  size  of  things  of  the  same  class,  produces  by  con- 
trast a  greater  feeling  of  magnitude  and  ponderous 
strength  than  another  object  of  ten  times  the  same  di- 
mensions. The  intensity  of  the  feeling  makes  up  for  the 
disproportion  of  the  objects.  Things  are  equal,  to  the 
imagination,  which  have  the  power  of  affecting  the  mind 
with  an  equal  degree  of  terror,  admiration,  delight,  or 
love.  When  Lear  calls  upon  the  heavens  to  avenge  his 
cause,  "for  they  are  old  like  him,"  ^  there  is  nothing  ex- 
travagant or  impious  in  this  sublime  identification  of  his 
age  with  theirs;  for  there  is  no  other  image  which  could 
do  justice  to  the  agonizing  sense  of  his  wrongs  and  his 
despair  I 

Poetry  is  the  high-wrought  enthusiasm  of  fancy  and 
feeling.  As,  in  describing  natural  objects,  it  impreg- 
nates sensible  impressions  with  the  forms  of  fancy,  so  it 
describes  the  feelings  of  pleasure  or  pain  by  blending 
them  with  the  strongest  movements  of  passion  and  the 
most  striking  forms  of  nature.  Tragic  poetry,  which  is 
the  most  impassioned  species  of  it,  strives  to  carry  on  the 
feeling  to  the  utmost  point  of  sublimity  or  pathos,  by  all 
the  force  of  comparison  or  contrast;  loses  the  sense  of 
present  suffering  in  the  imaginary  exaggeration  of  it; 

» Mtdaumtner  Night't  Dream,  V,  L  19-22. 
•CumbcUne,  II.  II.   19-21. 

^  See  King  Lear,  II.  iv.  194.  Compare  Lamb's  remark  on  tbe 
same  passage,  p.  \S3. 


226  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

exhausts  the  terror  or  pity  by  an  unlimited  indulgence  of 
it;  grapples  with  impossibilities  in  its  desperate  impa- 
tience of  restraint ;  throws  us  back  upon  the  past,  forward 
into  the  future;  brings  every  moment  of  our  being  or 
object  of  nature  in  startling  review  before  us;  and  in 
the  rapid  whirl  of  events,  lifts  us  from  the  depths  of  woe 
to  the  highest  contemplations  on  human  life.  When  Lear 
says  of  Edgar,  "Nothing  but  his  unkind  daughters  could 
have  brought  him  to  this,"  *  what  a  bewildered  amazement, 
what  a  wrench  of  the  imagination,  that  cannot  be  brought 
to  conceive  of  any  other  cause  of  misery  than  that  which 
has  bowed  it  down,  and  absorbs  all  other  sorrow  in  its 
own  I  Again,  when  he  exclaims  in  the  mad  scene,  "The 
little  dogs  and  all.  Tray,  Blanche,  and  Sweetheart,  see, 
they  bark  at  me !"  '  it  is  lending  occasion  to  imagination 
to  make  every  creature  in  league  against  him,  conjuring 
up  ingratitude  and  insult  in  their  least  looked-for  and 
most  galling  shapes,  searching  every  thread  and  fiber  of 
his  heart,  and  finding  out  the  least  remaining  image  of 
respect  or  attachment  in  the  bottom  of  his  breast,  only 
to  torture  and  kill  it !  In  like  manner,  the  "So  I  am"  ^° 
of  Cordelia  gushes  from  her  heart  like  a  torrent  of  tears, 
relieving  it  of  a  weight  of  love  and  of  supposed  ingrati- 
tude which  had  pressed  upon  it  for  years.  What  a  fine 
return  of  the  passion  upon  itself  is  that  in  Othello — with 
what  a  mingled  agony  of  regret  and  despair  he  clings 
to  the  last  traces  of  departed  happiness — when  he  ex- 
claims. 

Oh  now,  for  ever 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind.     Farewell  content; 
Farewell  the  plumed  troop  and  the  big  wars, 
That  make  ambition  virtue!     Oh  farewell! 
Farewell  the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump, 
The  spirit-stirring  drum,  th'  ear-piercing  fife, 
The  royal  banner,  and  all  quality, 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war: 
And  O  you  mortal  engines,  whose  rude  throats 
Th'  immortal  Jove's  dread  clamours  counterfeit, 
Farewell!      Othello's   occupation's   gone!  " 

*III,  Iv,  72-73.    Haslitt  qnotes  inaccurately,  as  nsaal. 

•Ill,  vl,  65-66. 

>»IV,  vll.  70. 

*i  Othello,   III,    111.    347-57. 


HAZLITT  227 

How  his  passion  lashes  itself  up  and  swells  and  rages  like 
a  tide  in  its  sounding  course,  when,  in  answer  to  the 
doubts  expressed  of  his  returning  love,  he  says, 

Never,  lago.    Like  to  the  Pontic  sea, 
Whose  icy  current  and  compulsive  course 
Ne'er  feels  retiring  ebb,  but  keeps  due  on 
To  the  Propontic  and  the  Hellespont: 
Even  BO  my  bloody  thoughts,  with  violent  pace. 
Shall  ne'er  look  back,  ne'er  ebb  to  humble  love, 
Till  that  a  capable  and  wide  revenge 
Swallow  them  lip." 

The  climax  of  his  expostulation  afterwards  with  Desde- 
mona  is  at  that  line. 

But  there  where  I  have  garner'd  up  my  heart,  .  .  . 
To  be  discarded  thence!  " 

One  mode  in  which  the  dramatic  exhibition  of  passion 
excites  our  sympathy  without  raising  our  disgust  is,  that 
in  proportion  as  it  sharpens  the  edge  of  calamity  and  dis- 
appointment, it  strengthens  the  desire  of  good.  It  en- 
hances our  consciousness  of  the  blessing,  by  making  us 
sensible  of  the  magnitude  of  the  loss.  The  storm  of  pas- 
sion lays  bare  and  shows  us  the  rich  depths  of  the  human 
soul:  ^*  the  whole  of  our  existence,  the  sum  total  of  our 
passions  and  pursuits,  of  that  which  we  desire  and  that 
which  we  dread,  is  brought  before  us  by  contrast;  the 
action  and  re-action  are  equal;  the  keenness  of  immediate 
suflFering  only  gives  us  a  more  intense  aspiration  after, 
and  a  more  intimate  participation  with,  the  antagonist 
world  of  good;  makes  us  drink  deeper  of  the  cup  of  hu- 
man life;  tugs  at  the  heart-stribgs ;  loosens  the  pressure 
about  them;  and  calls  the  springs  of  thought  and  feeling 
into  play  with  tenfold  force. 

Impassioned  poetry  is  an  emanation  of  the  moral  and 
intellectual  part  of  our  nature,  as  well  as  of  the  sensi- 
tive,— of  the  desire  to  know,  the  will  to  act,  and  the 
power  to  feel ;  and  ought  to  appeal  to  these  different  parts 

»*Jft<d.,  453-60. 

"IV,  11,  57.  60. 

u  Compare  Lamb  on  Lear,  p.  183. 


228  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

of  our  constitution,  in  order  to  be  perfect.  The  domestic 
or  prose  tragedy,  which  is  thought  to  be  the  most  natural, 
is  in  this  sense  the  least  so,  because  it  appeals  almost 
exclusively  to  one  of  these  faculties,  our  sensibility.  The 
tragedies  of  Moore  and  Lillo,^*  for  this  reason,  however 
affecting  at  the  time,  oppress  and  lie  like  a  dead  weight 
upon  the  mind,  a  load  of  misery  which  it  is  unable  to 
throw  off:  the  tragedy  of  Shakespeare,  which  is  true 
poetry,  stirs  our  inmost  affections,  abstracts  evil  from 
itself  by  combining  it  with  all  the  forms  of  imagination, 
and  with  the  deepest  workings  of  the  heart,  and  rouses 
the  whole  man  within  us. 

The  pleasure,  however,  derived  from  tragic  poetry  is 
not  anything  peculiar  to  it  as  poetry,  as  a  fictitious  and 
fanciful  thing.  It  is  not  an  anomaly  of  the  imagination. 
It  has  its  source  and  ground-work  in  the  common  love  of 
strong  excitement.  As  Mr.  Burke  observes,^*  people  flock 
to  see  a  tragedy;  but  if  there  were  a  public  execution  in 
the  next  street,  the  theater  would  very  soon  be  empty. 
It  is  not,  then,  the  difference  between  fiction  and  reality 
that  solves  the  difficulty.  Children  are  satisfied  with  the 
stories  of  ghosts  and  witches  in  plain  prose:  nor  do  the 
hawkers  of  full,  true,  and  particular  accounts  of  mur- 
ders and  executions  about  the  streets,  find  it  necessary 
to  have  them  turned  into  penny  ballads,  before  they  can 
dispose  of  these  interesting  and  authentic  documents. 
The  grave  politician  drives  a  thriving  trade  of  abuse  and 
calumnies,  poured  out  against  those  whom  he  makes  his 
enemies,  for  no  other  end  than  that  he  may  live  by 
them.  The  popular  preacher  makes  less  frequent  men- 
tion of  heaven  than  of  hell.  Oaths  and  nicknames  are 
only  a  more  vulgar  sort  of  poetry  or  rhetoric.  We  are 
as  fond  of  indulging  our  violent  passions  as  of  reading  a 
description  of  those  of  others.  We  are  as  prone  to  make 
a  torment  of  our  fears  as  to  luxuriate  in  our  hopes  of 
good.  If  it  be  asked,  Why  do  we  do  so?  the  best  answer 
will  be,  Because  we  cannot  help  it.  The  sense  of  power 
is  as  strong  a  principle  in  the  mind  as  the  love  of  pleas- 
ure.   Objects  of  terror  and  pity  exercise  the  same  des- 

"  Compare  Lamb,   pp.   175,   179.      It  will   be  seen   that   Hazlltt, 
doubtless  unconsciously.  Is  borrowing  from  his  friend's  essay. 
>"  Our  Idea*  of  the  SubUme  and  Beautiful,  Ft.  i,  Sec.  16. 


HAZLITT  229 

potic  control  over  it  as  those  of  love  or  beauty.  It  is 
as  natural  to  hate  as  to  love,  to  despise  as  to  admire,  to 
express  our  hatred  or  contempt  as  our  love  or  admira- 
tion. 

Masterless  passion  sways  us  to  the  mood 

Of  what  it  likes  or  loathes." 

Not  that  we  like  what  we  loathe ;  but  we  like  to  indulge 
our  hatred  and  scorn  of  it;  to  dwell  upon  it,  to  exasperate 
our  idea  of  it  by  every  refinement  of  ingenuity  and  ex- 
travagance of  illustration;  to  make  it  a  bugbear  to  our- 
selves, to  point  it  out  to  others  in  all  the  splendor  of 
deformity;  to  embody  it  to  the  senses;  to  stigmatize  it 
by  name;  to  grapple  with  it  in  thought,  in  action;  to 
sharpen  our  intellect,  to  arm  our  will  against  it ;  to  know 
the  worst  we  have  to  contend  with,  and  to  contend  with 
it  to  the  utmost.  Poetry  is  only  the  highest  eloquence  of 
passion,  the  most  vivid  form  of  expression  that  can  be 
given  to  our  conception  of  anything,  whether  pleasurable 
or  painful,  mean  or  dignified,  delightful  or  distressing. 
It  is  the  perfect  coincidence  of  the  image  and  the  words 
with  the  feeling  we  have,  and  of  which  we  cannot  ^et 
rid  in  any  other  way,  that  gives  an  instant  "satisfaction 
to  the  thought."  This  is  equally  the  origin  of  wit  and 
fancy,  of  comedy  and  tragedy,  of  the  sublime  and  the 
pathetic.     When  Pope  says  of  the  Lord  Mayor's  show. 

Now  night  descending,  the  proud  scene  is  o'er. 
But  lives  in  Settle's  numbers  one  day  more!  *• 

— when  Collins  makes  Danger,  "with  limbs  of  giant 
mould," 

Throw  him  on  the  steep 
Of  some  loose  hanging  rock  asleep;  ** 

— ^when  Lear  calls  out  in  extreme  anguish, 

Ingratitude,  thou  marble-hearted  fiend, 

More  hideous  when  thou  show'st  thee  in  a  child 

Than  the  sea-monster!  * 

"Merchant  of  Venice,  IV,  1,  51-62.      (Not  the  usual  text.) 
^The  Dunciad,  i,  89-90. 

""Ode  to  Fear,"  lines  14-15    (inaccurately  quoted). 
«<>I,  It,  281-83. 


230  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

the  passion  of  contempt  in  the  one  case,  of  terror  in  the 
other,  and  of  indignation  in  the  last,  is  perfectly  satisfied. 
We  see  the  thing  ourselves,  and  show  it  to  others  as  we 
feel  it  to  exist,  and  as,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  we  are  com- 
pelled to  think  of  it.  The  imagination,  by  thus  embody- 
ing and  turning  them  to  shape,  gives  an  obvious  relief 
to  the  indistinct  and  importunate  cravings  of  the  will. 
We  do  not  wish  the  thing  to  be  so,  but  we  wish  it  to 
appear  such  as  it  is.  For  knowledge  is  conscious  power; 
and  the  mind  is  no  longer,  in  this  case,  the  dupe,  though 
it  may  be  the  victim,  of  vice  or  folly. 

Poetry  is  in  all  its  shapes  the  language  of  the  imagina- 
tion and  the  passions,  of  fancy  and  will.  Nothing,  there- 
fore, can  be  more  absurd  than  the  outcry  which  has  been 
sometimes  raised  by  frigid  and  pedantic  critics,  for  re- 
ducing the  language  of  poetry  to  the  standard  of  com- 
mon sense  and  reason:  for  the  end  and  use  of  poetry, 
"both  at  the  first  and  now,  was  and  is  to  hold  the  mirror 
up  to  nature,"  ^^  seen  through  the  medium  of  passion  an3 
imagination,  not  divested  of  that  medium  by  means  of 
literal  truth  or  abstract  reason.  The  painter  of  history 
mii^ht  as  well  be  required  to  represent  the  face  of  a  per- 
son who  has  just  trod  upon  a  serpent  with  the  still-life 
expression  of  a  common  portrait,  as  the  poet  to  describe 
the  most  striking  and  vivid  impressions  which  things 
can  be  supposed  to  make  upon  the  mind,  in  the  language 
of  common  conversation.  Let  who  will  strip  nature  of 
the  colors  and  the  shapes  of  fancy,  the  poet  is  not  bound 
to  do  so;  the  impressions  of  common  sense  and  strong 
imagination,  that  is,  of  passion  and  indifference,  cannot 
be  the  same,  and  they  must  have  a  separate  language  to 
do  justice  to  either.  Objects  must  strike  differently  upon 
the  mind,  independently  of  what  they  are  in  themselves, 
as  long  as  we  have  a  different  interest  in  them,  as  we 
see  them  in  a  different  point  of  view,  nearer  or  at  a 
great  distance  (morally  or  physically  speaking)  from 
novelty,  from  old  acquaintance,  from  our  ignorance  of 
them,  from  our  fear  of  their  consequences,  from  contrast, 
from  unexi>ected  likeness.  We  can  no  more  take  away 
the  faculty  of  the  imagination,  than  we  can  see  all  objects 

*^  Hamlet.  Ill,  11,  24. 


HAZLITT  231 

without  light  OP  shade.  Some  things  must  dazzle  us  by 
their  preternatural  light;  others  must  hold  us  in  sus- 
pense, and  tempt  our  curiosity  to  explore  their  obscurity. 
Those  who  would  dispel  these  various  illusions,  to  give  us 
their  drab-colored  creation  in  their  stead,  are  not  very 
wise.  Let  the  naturalist,  if  he  will,  catch  the  glow-worm, 
carry  it  home  with  him  in  a  box,  and  find  it  next  morn- 
ing nothing  but  a  little  gray  worm;  let  the  poet  or  the 
lover  of  poetry  visit  it  at  evening,  when  beneath  the 
scented  hawthorn  and  the  crescent  moon  it  has  built  it- 
self a  palace  of  emerald  light.  This  is  also  one  part  of 
nature,  one  appearance  which  the  glow-worm  presents, 
and  that  not  the  least  interesting;  so  poetry  is  one  part 
of  the  history  of  the  human  mind,  though  it  is  neither 
science  nor  philosophy.  It  cannot  be  concealed,  however, 
that  the  progress  of  knowledge  and  refinement  has  a 
tendency  to  circumscribe  the  limits  of  the  imagination, 
and  to  clip  the  wings  of  poetry.  The  province  of  the 
imagination  is  principally  visionary,  the  unknown  and 
undefined:  the  understanding  restores  things  to  their 
natural  boundaries,  and  strips  them  of  their  fanciful  pre- 
tensions. Hence  the  history  of  religious  and  poetical 
enthusiasm  is  much  the  same;  and  both  have  received  a 
sensible  shock  from  the  progress  of  experimental  philoso- 
phy.^^  It  is  the  undefined  and  uncommon  that  gives  birth 
and  scope  to  the  imagination ;  we  can  only  fancy  what 
we  do  not  know.  As  in  looking  into  the  mazes  of  a 
tangled  wood  we  fill  them  with  what  shapes  we  please, 
with  ravenous  beasts,  with  caverns  vast,  and  dread  en- 
chantments, so  in  our  ignorance  of  the  world  about  us  we 
make  gods  or  devils  of  the  first  object  we  see;  and  set 
no  bounds  to  the  wilful  suggestions  of  our  hopes  and 
fears. 

And  visions,  as  poetic  eyes  avow, 

Hang  on  each  leaf  and  cling  to  every  bough." 

There  can  never  be  another  Jacob's  dream.  Since  that 
time  the  heavens  have  gone  farther  off,  and  grown  astro- 

"  Compare  and  contrast  Wordsworth's  view,   p.   15. 

^From  a  Icttor  of  Gray's  to  Iloraco  Walpole  (Letterg,  ed. 
Tovey,  i,  7-8).  Ilazlitfs  editors.  Waller  and  Glover,  suggest  that 
It  is  apparently  a  translation  of  the  .Encid,  vi,  282-84. 


232  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

nomical.  They  have  become  averse  to  the  imagination, 
nor  will  they  return  to  us  on  the  squares  of  the  distances, 
or  on  Doctor  Chalmers's  Discourses.^*  Rembrandt's  pic- 
ture brings  the  matter  nearer  to  us.  It  is  not  only  the 
progress  of  mechanical  knowledge,  but  the  necessary  ad- 
vances of  civilization,  that  are  unfavorable  to  the  spirit 
of  poetry.  We  not  only  stand  in  less  awe  of  the  preter- 
natural world,  but  we  can  calculate  more  surely,  and 
look  with  more  indifference,  upon  the  regular  routine  of 
this.  The  heroes  of  the  fabulous  ages  rid  the  world  of 
monsters  and  giants.  At  present  we  are  less  exposed  to 
the  vicissitudes  of  good  or  evil,  to  the  incursions  of  wild 
beasts  or  "bandit  fierce,"  or  to  the  unmitigated  fury  of 
the  elements.  The  time  has  been  that  "our  fell  of  hair 
would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse  and  stir  as  life  were 
in  it."  25  But  the  police  spoils  all ;  and  we  now  hardly  so 
much  as  dream  of  a  midnight  murder.  Macbeth  is  only 
tolerated  in  this  country  for  the  sake  of  the  music;  and 
in  the  United  States  of  America,  where  the  philosophical 
principles  of  government  are  carried  still  farther  in 
theory  and  practice,  we  find  that  the  Beggar's  Opera  -*  is 
hooted  from  the  stage.  Society,  by  degrees,  is  constructed 
into  a  machine  that  carries  us  safely  and  insipidly  from 
one  end  of  life  to  the  other,  in  a  very  comfortable  prose 
style. 

Obscurity  her  curtain  round  them  drew, 
And  siren  Sloth  a  dull  quietus  sung." 

The  remarks  which  have  been  here  made  would,  in 
some  measure,  lead  to  a  solution  of  the  question  of  the 
comparative  merits  of  painting  and  poetry.  I  do  not 
mean  to  give  any  preference,  but  it  should  seem  that  the 
argument  which  has  been  sometimes  set  up,  that  painting 
must  affect  the  imagination  more  strongly,  because  it  rep- 
resents the  image  more  distinctly,  is  not  well  founded. 
We  may  assume  without  much  temerity  that  poetry  is 
more  poetical  than  painting.     When  artists  or  connois- 

**  Diacourtet  on  the  ChrUtian  Revelation,  viewed  in  ovnnection 
with  Modem  AUroncmv,  by  Dr.  Thomas  Chalmers,  1817. 

**  Macbeth,  V,  v,  11-13. 

*•  See  note  on  p.  216. 

"Prom  a  poem  written  by  Sneyd  Davies  (170&-1769)  "To  the 
Honourable  and  Reverend  Ffrederick]   Ctornwallls]." 


HAZLITT  233 

seurs  talk  on  stilts  about  the  poetry  of  painting,  they 
show  that  they  know  little  about  poetry,  and  have  little 
love  for  the  art.  Painting  gives  the  object  itself;  poetry 
what  it  implies.  Painting  embodies  what  a  thing  con- 
tains in  itself:  poetry  suggests  what  exists  out  of  it,  in 
any  manner  connected  with  it.  But  this  last  is  the  proper 
province  of  the  imagination.  Again,  as  it  relates  to  pas- 
sion, painting  gives  the  event,  poetry  the  progress  of 
events:  but  it  is  during  the  progress,  in  the  interval  of 
expectation  and  suspense,  while  our  hopes  and  fears  are 
strained  to  the  highest  pitch  of  breathless  agony,  that  the 
pinch  of  the  interest  lies. 

Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 
And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a  phantasma  or  a  hideous  dream. 
The  Genius  and  the  mortal  instruments 
Are  then  in  council,  and  tlie  state  of  man. 
Like  to  a  little  kingdom,  suflFers  then 
The  nature  of   an  insurrection." 

But  by  the  time  that  the  picture  is  painted,  all  is  over. 
Faces  are  the  best  part  of  a  picture ;  but  even  faces  are 
not  what  we  chiefly  remember  in  what  interests  us  most. 
But  it  may  be  asked  then.  Is  there  anything  better  than 
Claude  Lorraine's  landscapes,  than  Titian's  portraits,  than 
Raphael's  cartoons,  or  the  Greek  statues?  Of  the  two 
first  I  shall  say  nothing,  as  they  are  evidently  picturesque, 
rather  than  imaginative.  Raphael's  cartoons  are  certainly 
the  finest  comments  that  ever  were  made  on  the  Scrip- 
tures. Would  their  effect  be  the  same,  if  we  were  not 
acquainted  with  the  text  ?  But  the  New  Testament  existed 
before  the  cartoons.  There  is  one  subject  of  which  there 
is  no  cartoon:  Christ  washing  the  feet  of  the  disciples 
the  night  before  his  death.  But  that  chapter  does  not 
need  a  commentary !  It  is  for  want  of  some  such  resting- 
place  for  the  imagination  that  the  Creek  statues  are  little 
else  than  specious  forms.  They  are  marble  to  the  touch 
and  to  the  heart.  They  have  not  an  informing  principle 
within  them.  In  their  faultless  excellence  they  appear 
sufficient  to  themselves.  By  their  beauty  they  are  raised 
above   the    frailties    of  passion   or   suffering.     By   their 

"JuKut  Ccesar,  II,  1,  63-69. 


234  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

beauty  they  are  deified.  But  they  are  not  objects  of 
religious  faith  to  us,  and  their  forms  are  a  reproach  to 
common  humanity.  They  seem  to  have  no  sympathy  with 
us,  and  not  to  want  our  admiration. 

Poetry  in  its  matter  and  form  is  natural  imagery  or 
feeling,  combined  with  passion  and  fancy.  In  its  mode 
of  conveyance,  it  combines  the  ordinary  use  of  language 
with  musical  expression.  There  is  a  question  of  long 
standing,  in  what  the  essence  of  poetry  consists;  or  what 
it  is  that  determines  why  one  set  of  ideas  should  be  ex- 
pressed in  prose,  another  in  verse.  Milton  has  told  us 
his  idea  of  poetry  in  a  single  line — 

Thoughts  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers." 

As  there  are  certain  sounds  that  excite  certain  movements, 
and  the  song  and  dance  go  together,  so  there  are,  no 
doubt,  certain  thoughts  that  lead  to  certain  tones  of 
voice,  or  modulations  of  sound,  and  change  "the  words 
of  Mercury  into  the  songs  of  Apollo."  There  is  a  striking 
instance  of  this  adaptation  of  the  movement  of  sound 
and  rhythm  to  the  subject,  in  Spenser's  description  of  the 
Satyrs  accompanying  Una  to  the  cave  of  Sylvanua. 

So  from  the  ground  she  fearless  doth  arise 

And  walketh   forth   without  suspect  of  crime. 

They,  all  as  glad  as  birds  of  joyous  prime, 

Thence  lead  her  forth,  about  her  dancing  round. 

Shouting  and  singing  all  a  shepherd's  rhyme; 

And,  with  green  branches  strewing  all  the  ground, 

Do  worship  her  as  queen  with  olive  garland  crowned. 

And  all  the  way  their  merry  pipes  they  sound. 
That  all  the  woods  with  doubled  echo  ring; 

And  with  their  horned  feet  do  wear  the  groimd,- 
Leaping  like  wanton  kids  in  pleasant  spring; 

So  towards  old  Sylvanus  they  her  bring, 
Who,  with  the  noise  awaked,  cometh  out.* 

On  the  contrary,  there  is  nothing  either  musical  or  natural 
in  the  ordinary  construction  of  language.  It  is  a  thing 
altogether  arbitrary  and  conventional.  Neither  in  the 
sounds  themselves,  which  are  the  voluntary  signs  of  cer- 

*»Paradi»e  Loat,  Hi,  37-38. 

*"  Faerie  Queene,  Bk.  i,  caoto  vi,  Htanzas  13-14. 


HAZLITT  235 

tain  ideas,  nor  in  their  grammatical  arrangements  in 
common  speech,  is  there  any  principle  of  natural  imita- 
tion, or  correspondence  to  the  individual  ideas,  or  to  the 
tone  of  feeling,  with  which  they  are  conveyed  to  others. 
The  jerks,  the  breaks,  the  inequalities  and  harshnesses  of 
prose  are  fatal  to  the  flow  of  a  poetical  imagination,  as  a 
jolting  road  or  a  stumbling  horse  disturbs  the  reverie 
of  an  absent  man.  But  poetry  makes  these  odds  all  even. 
It  is  the  music  of  language,  answering  to  the  music  of 
the  mind,  untying  as  it  were  "the  secret  soul  of  harmony." 
Wherever  any  object  takes  such  a  hold  of  the  mind  as 
to  make  us  dwell  upon  it,  and  brood  over  it,  melting  the 
heart  in  tenderness,  or  kindling  it  to  a  sentiment  of 
enthusiasm; — wherever  a  movement  of  imagination  or 
passion  is  impressed  on  the  mind,  by  which  it  seeks  to 
prolong  and  repeat  the  emotion,  to  bring  all  other  objects 
into  accord  with  it,  and  to  give  the  same  movement  of 
harmony,  sustained  and  continuous,  or  gradually  varied 
according  to  the  occasion,  to  the  sounds  that  express  it — 
this  is  poetry.  The  musical  in  sound  is  the  sustained 
and  continuous;  the  musical  in  thought  is  the  sustained 
and  continuous  also.  There  is  a  near  connection  between 
music  and  deep-rooted  passion.  Mad  people  sing.  As 
often  as  articulation  passes  naturally  into  intonation, 
there  poetry  begins.  Where  one  idea  gives  a  tone  and 
color  to  others,  where  one  feeling  melts  others  into  it, 
there  can  be  no  reason  why  the  same  principle  should 
not  be  extended  to  the  sounds  by  which  the  voice  utters 
these  emotions  of  the  soul,  and  blends  syllables  and  lines 
into  each  other.  It  is  to  supply  the  inherent  defect  of 
harmony  in  the  customary  mechanism  of  language,  to 
make  the  sound  an  echo  to  the  sense,  when  the  sense 
becomes  a  sort  of  echo  to  itself — to  mingle  the  tide  of 
verse,  "the  golden  cadences  of  poetry,"  with  the  tide 
of  feeling,  flowing  and  murmuring  as  it  flows — in  short, 
to  take  the  language  of  the  imagination  from  off  the 
ground,  and  enable  it  to  spread  its  wings  where  it  may 
indulge  its  own  impulses — 

Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 
Through  the  azure  deep  of  air — " 

"From  Oray's  "The  Progress  of  Poesy,"  lines  116-17. 


286  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

without  being  stopped,  or  fretted,  or  diverted  with  the 
abruptness  and  petty  obstacles,  and  discordant  flats  and 
sharps  of  prose,  that  poetry  was  invented.  It  is  to  com- 
mon language  what  springs  are  to  a  carriage,  or  wings  to 
feet.  In  ordinary  speech  we  arrive  at  a  certain  har- 
mony by  the  modulations  of  the  voice:  in  poetry  the 
same  thing  is  done  systematically  by  a  regular  collocation 
of  syllables.  It  has  been  well  observed  that  every  one 
who  declaims  warmly,  or  grows  intent  upon  a  subject, 
rises  into  a  sort  of  blank  verse  or  measured  prose.  The 
merchant,  as  described  by  Chaucer,  went  on  his  way 
"sounding  always  the  increase  of  his  winning."  Every 
prose  writer  has  more  or  less  of  rhythmical  adaptation, 
except  poets,  who,  when  deprived  of  the  regular  mechan- 
ism of  verse,  seem  to  have  no  principle  of  modulation  left 
in  their  writings. 

An  excuse  might  be  made  for  rhyme  in  the  same  man- 
ner. It  is  but  fair  that  the  ear  should  linger  on  the 
sounds  that  delight  it,  or  avail  itself  of  the  same  bril- 
liant coincidence  and  unexpected  recurrence  of  syllables 
that  have  been  displayed  in  the  invention  and  colloca- 
tion of  images.  It  is  allowed  that  rhyme  assists  the 
memory;  and  a  man  of  wit  and  shrewdness  has  been 
heard  to  say  that  the  only  four  good  lines  of  poetry  are 
the  well  known  ones  which  tell  the  number  of  days  in 
the  months  of  the  year:  "Thirty  days  hath  September," 
etc.  But  if  the  jingle  of  names  assists  the  memory,  may 
it  not  also  quicken  the  fancy?  and  there  are  other  things 
worth  having  at  our  fingers'  ends,  besides  the  contents 
of  the  almanac.  Pope's  versification  is  tiresome,  from 
its  excessive  sweetness  and  uniformity.  Shakespeare's 
blank  verse  is  the  perfection  of  dramatic  dialogue. 

All  is  not  poetry  that  passes  for  such:  nor  does  verse 
make  the  whole  difference  between  poetry  and  prose. 
The  Iliad  does  not  cease  to  be  poetry  in  a  literal  transla- 
tion ;  and  Addison's  Campaign  '^  has  been  very  properly 
denominated  a  gazette  in  rhyme.  Common  prose  differs 
from  poetry,  as  treating  for  the  most  part  either  of  such 
trite,  familiar,  and  irksome  matters  of  fact  as  convey 

"  A  poem  commemorating  the  Battle  of  Blenheim,  published 
1704.  It  WEB  called  a  "gazette  ia  rhyme"  in  Joseph  Warton's 
EBaay  on  Pope. 


HAZLITT  237 

no  extraordinary  impulse  to  the  imagination,  or  else  of 
such  difficult  and  laborious  processes  of  the  understand- 
ing as  do  not  admit  of  the  wayward  or  violent  move- 
ments either  of  the  imagination  or  the  passions. 

I  will  mention  three  works  which  come  as  near  to 
poetry  as  possible  without  absolutely  being  so;  namely, 
The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  the  Tales  of 
Boccaccio.  Chaucer  and  Dryden  have  translated  some  of 
the  last  into  English  rhyme,  but  the  essence  and  the  power 
of  poetry  was  there  before.  That  which  lifts  the  spirit 
above  the  earth,  which  draws  the  soul  out  of  itself  with 
indescribable  longings,  is  poetry  in  kind,  and  generally 
fit  to  become  so  in  name,  by  being  **^married  to  immortal 
versa"  If  it  is  of  the  essence  of  poetry  tb  strike  and 
fix  the  imagination,  whether  we  will  or  no,  to  make  the 
eye  of  childhood  glisten  with  the  starting  tear,  to  be  never 
thought  of  afterwards  with  indifference,  John  Bunyan 
and  Daniel  Defoe  may  be  permitted  to  pass  for  poets 
in  their  way.  The  mixture  of  fancy  and  reality  in  The 
Pilgrim's  Progress  was  never  equaled  in  any  allegory. 
His  pilgrims  walk  above  the  earth,  and  yet  are  on  it. 
What  zeal,  what  beauty,  what  truth  of  fiction!  What 
deep  feeling  in  the  description  of  Christian's  swimming 
across  the  water  at  last,  and  in  the  picture  of  the  Shining 
Ones  within  the  gates,  with  wings  at  their  backs  and 
garlands  on  their  heads,  who  are  to  wipe  all  tears  from 
his  eyesl  The  writer's  genius,  though  not  "dipped  in 
dews  of  Castalie,"  was  baptized  with  the  Holy  Spirit  and 
with  fire.  The  prints  in  this  book  are  no  small  part  of 
it.  If  the  confinement  of  Philoctetes  in  the  island  of 
Lemnos  was  a  subject  for  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
Greek  tragedies,^'  what  shall  we  say  to  Robinson  Crusoe  in 
his?  Take  the  speech  of  the  Greek  hero  on  leaving  his 
cave,'*  beautiful  as  it  is,  and  compare  it  with  the  reflec- 

"The  Philoctetes  of  Sophocles. 

•♦"What  bitter  tears  started  from  mine  eyes, — what  miseries 
were  those  that  I  bewailed  when  I  saw  that  the  ships  with  which 
I  bad  sailed  were  all  gone,  and  that  there  was  no  man  in  the 
place, — not  one  to  help,  not  one  to  ease  the  burden  of  the  sick- 
ness that  vexed  me, — when,  looking  all  around,  I  could  find  no 
provision,  save  for  anguish — but  of  that  a  plenteous  store,  my  son ! 
So  time  went  on  for  me,  season  by  season ;  and,  alone  in  this 
narrow  house,  I  was  fain  to  meet  each  want  by  my  own  service." 
(Jebb's  translation.) 


238  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

tions  of  the  English  adventurer  in  his  solitary  place  of 
confinement.  The  thoughts  of  home,  and  of  all  from  which 
he  is  for  ever  cut  oflf,  swell  and  press  against  his  bosom, 
as  the  heaving  ocean  rolls  its  ceaseless  tide  against  the 
rocky  shore,  and  the  very  beatings  of  his  heart  become 
audible  in  the  eternal  silence  that  surrounds  him.  Thus 
he  says: 

As  I  walked  about,  either  in  my  hunting,  or  for  viewing 
the  country,  the  anguish  of  my  soul  at  my  condition  would 
break  out  upon  me  on  a  sudden,  and  my  very  heart  would  die 
within  me  to  think  of  the  woods,  the  mountains,  the  deserts 
I  was  in;  and  how  I  was  a  prisoner,  locked  up  with  the  eter- 
nal bars  and  bolts  of  the  ocean,  in  an  uninhabited  wilderness, 
without  redemption.  In  the  midst  of  the  greatest  composures 
of  my  mind,  this  would  break  out  upon  me  like  a  storm,  and 
make  me  wring  my  hands,  and  weep  like  a  child.  Sometimes 
it  would  take  me  in  the  middle  of  my  work,  and  I  would 
immediately  sit  down  and  sigh,  and  look  upon  the  ground  for 
an  hour  or  two  together,  and  this  was  still  worse  to  me,  for 
if  I  could  burst  into  tears  or  vent  myself  in  words,  it  would 
go  off,  and  the  grief,  having  exhausted  itself,  would  abate. 

The  story  of  his  adventures  would  not  make  a  poem  like 
the  Odyssey,  it  is  true;  but  the  relator  had  the  true  genius 
of  a  poet.  It  has  been  made  a  question  whether  Richard- 
son's romances ^^  are  poetry;  and  the  answer  perhaps  is, 
that  they  are  not  poetry  because  they  are  not  romance. 
The  interest  is  worked  up  to  an  inconceivable  height; 
but  it  is  by  an  infinite  number  of  little  things,  by  in- 
cessant labor  and  calls  upon  the  attention,  by  a  repeti- 
tion of  blows  that  have  no  rebound  in  them.  The  sym- 
pathy excited  is  not  a  voluntary  contribution,  but  a 
tax.  Nothing  is  unforced  and  spontaneous.  There  is  a 
want  of  elasticity  and  motion.  The  story  does  not  "give 
an  echo  to  the  seat  where  love  is  throned."  The  heart 
does  not  answer  of  itself  like  a  chord  in  music.  The 
fancy  does  not  run  on  before  the  writer  with  breathless 
expectation,  but  is  dragged  along  with  an  infinite  number 
of  pins  and  wheels,  like  those  with  which  the  Lilliputians 
dragged  Gulliver  pinioned  to  the  royal  palace.  Sir 
Charles  Grandison  is  a  coxcomb.    What  sort  of  a  figure 

»»  Pamela,  1740  ;  Clarista  HarloKC,  1747-8  ;  Eir  Charlet  Granditon, 
1753. 


HAZLITT  239 

would  he  cut,  translated  into  an  epic  poem,  by  the  side 
of  Achilles?  Clarissa,  the  divine  Clarissa,  is  too  inter- 
esting by  half.  She  is  interesting  in  her  ruffles,  in  her 
gloves,  in  her  samplers,  her  aunts  and  uncles — she  is 
interesting  in  all  that  is  uninteresting.  Such  things, 
however  intensely  they  may  be  brought  home  to  us,  are 
not  conductors  to  the  imagination.  There  is  infinite 
truth  and  feeling  in  Kichardson;  but  it  is  extracted  from 
a  caput  mortuum  of  circumstances:  it  does  not  evaporate 
of  itself.  His  poetical  genius  is  like  Ariel  confined  in 
a  pine-tree,  and  requires  an  artificial  process  to  let  it 
out.    Shakespeare  says: 

Our  poesy  is  as  a  gum,  which  oozes 
From  whence  'tis  nourished;  .  .  .  our  gentle  flame 
Provokes  itself,  and  like  the  current  flies 
Each  bound  it  chafes.^ 

Burke's  writings  are  not  poetry,  notwithstanding  the 
vividness  of  his  fancy,^^  because  the  subject-matter  is  ab- 
struse and  dry,  not  natural  but  artificial.  The  difference 
between  poetry  and  eloquence  is,  that  the  one  is  the 
eloquence  of  the  imagination  and  the  other  of  the  under- 
standing.'* Eloquence  tries  to  persuade  the  will,  and  con- 
vince the  reason;  poetry  produces  its  effect  by  instantane- 
ous sympathy.  Nothing  is  a  subject  for  poetry  that  ad- 
mits of  a  dispute.  Poets  are  in  general  bad  prose  writers, 
because  their  images,  though  fine  in  themselves,  are  not 
to  the  purpose,  and  do  not  carry  on  the  argument.  The 
French  poetry  wants  the  forms  of  the  imagination.  It 
is  didactic  more  than  dramatic.    And  some  of  our  own 

"Timcn  of  Athctut.  I,  1,  21-25. 

*'  Compare  a  passage  in  Hazlitt's  essay  on  "The  Prose  Style  of 
Poets"  :     "It  has   always   appeared    to   me    that    the   most   perfect 

firose  style,  the  most  powerful,  the  most  dazzling,  the  most  dar- 
ng,  that  which  went  nearest  to  the  verge  of  poetry,  and  yet 
nevor  fell  over,  was  Burke's.  ...  It  differs  from  poetry,  as  I 
conceive,  like  the  chamois  from  the  eagle ;  It  climbs  to  an  almost 
equnl  height,  touches  upon  a  cloud,  overlooks  a  precipice.  Is 
picturesque,  sublime, — but  all  the  while,  instead  of  soaring  through 
the  air,  it  stands  upon  a  rocky  cliff,  clambers  up  by  abrupt  and 
Intricate  ways,  and  browses  on  the  roughest  bark,  or  crops  the 
tender  flower.  The  principle  which  guides  bis  pen  is  truth,  not 
beauty." 

*  This  subject,  the  relation  of  poetry  to  eloquence.  Is  discussed 
by  John  Stuart  Mill  in  his  essay  called  "Thoughts  on  Poetry  and 
Ite  Varieties." 


240  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

poetry  which  has  been  most  admired  is  only  poetry  in 
the  rhyme,  and  in  the  studied  use  of  poetic  diction.^*  .  .  , 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  RACINE,  AND  SHAKES- 
PEARE 

WiLLUM   HaZLITT 

[One  of  the  essays  of  the  collection  called  The  Plwin  Speaker: 
Opinions  on  Books,  Men,  and  Things,  published  1826.  Two  or 
three  introductory  pages,  irrelevant  to  the  subject,  are 
omitted.] 

The  subject  occurred  to  me  from  some  conversation  with 
a  French  lady,  who  entertains  a  project  of  introducing 
Shakespeare  in  France.  As  I  demurred  to  the  probabil- 
ity of  this  alteration  in  the  national  taste,  she  endeav- 
ored to  overcome  my  despondency  by  several  lively  argu- 
ments, and  among  other  things  urged  the  instantaneous 
and  universal  success  of  the  Scotch  Novels  among  all 
ranks  and  conditions  of  the  French  people.  As  Shake- 
speare had  been  performing  quarantine  among  them  for 
a  century  and  a  half  to  no  purpose,  I  thought  this  cir- 
cumstance rather  proved  the  difference  in  the  genius  of 
the  two  writers  than  a  change  in  the  taste  of  the  nation. 
Madame  B.  stoutly  maintained  the  contrary  opinion ;  and 
when  an  Englishman  argues  with  a  Frenchwoman,  he 
has  very  considerable  odds  against  him.  The  only  advan- 
tage you  have  in  this  case  is  that  you  can  plead  inabil- 
ity to  express  yourself  properly,  and  may  be  supposed  to 
have  a  meaning  where  you  have  none.  An  eager  manner 
will  supply  the  place  of  distinct  ideas,  and  you  have  only 
not  to  surrender  in  form,  to  appear  to  come  off  with  fly- 
ing colors.  The  not  being  able  to  make  others  understand 
me,  however,  prevents  me  from  understanding  myself, 
and  I  was  by  no  means  satisfied  with  the  reasons  I  al- 
leged in  the  present  instance.  I  tried  to  mend  them  the 
next  day,  and  the  following  is  the  result. 

*Tbe  concluding  paragraphs,  here  omitted,  contain  "some  re- 
marks on  four  of  the  principal  works  of  poetry  in  the  world." 
Homer,  the  Bible,   Dante,  and  Ossian. 


HAZLITT  241 

It  was  supposed  at  one  time  that  the  genius  of  the  au- 
thor of  Waverley  was  confined  to  Scotland;  that  his  nov- 
els and  tales  were  a  bundle  of  national  prejudices  and 
local  traditions,  and  that  his  superiority  would  desert 
him,  the  instant  he  attempted  to  cross  the  Border.  He 
made  the  attempt,  however,  and,  contrary  to  these  unfa- 
vorable prognostics,  succeeded.  Ivanhoe,  if  not  equal  to 
the  very  best  of  the  Scotch  Novels,  is  very  nearly  so ;  and 
the  scenery  and  manners  are  truly  English.  In  Quentin 
Durward,  again,  he  made  a  descent  upon  France,  and 
gained  new  laurels,  instead  of  losing  his  former  ones. 
This  seemed  to  bespeak  a  versatility  of  talent  and  a  plas- 
tic power,  which  in  the  first  instance  had  been  called  in 
question.  A  Scotch  mist  had  been  suspected  to  hang  its 
mystery  over  the  page;  his  imagination  was  borne  up  on 
Highland  superstitions  and  obsolete  traditions,  "sailing 
with  supreme  dominion"  through  the  murky  regions  of 
ignorance  and  barbarism;  and  if  ever  at  a  loss,  his  in- 
vention was  eked  out  and  got  a  cast  by  means  of  ancient 
documents  and  the  records  of  criminal  jurisprudence  or 
fanatic  rage.  The  Black  Dwarf  was  a  paraphrase  of  the 
current  anecdotes  of  David  Ritchie,  without  any  additional 
point  or  interest;  and  the  story  of  Effie  Deans  had  slept 
for  a  century  in  the  law  reports  and  depositions  relative 
to  the  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian.  To  be  sure,  nothing  could 
be  finer  or  truer  to  nature ;  for  the  human  heart,  wherever 
or  however  it  is  awakened,  has  a  stirring  power  in  it,  and 
as  to  the  truth  of  nature,  nothing  can  be  more  like  na- 
ture than  the  facts,  if  you  know  where  to  find  them. 
But  as  to  sheer  invention,  there  appeared  to  be  about  as 
much  as  there  is  in  the  getting  up  the  melodramatic  repre- 
sensation  of  The  Maid  and  the  Magpie  *  from  the  Causes 
Celehres.  The  invention  is  much  greater  and  the  effect 
is  not  less  in  Mrs.  Inchbald's  Nature  and  Art,''  where 
there  is  nothing  that  can  have  been  given  in  evidence 
but  the  Trial  Scene  near  the  end,  and  even  that  is  not  a 
legal  anecdote,  but  a  pure  dramatic  fiction.  Before  I 
proceed,  I  may  as  well  dwell  on  this  point  a  little.     The 

'  A  comedy,  which  HazUtt  reviewed  for  The  Examiner  In  Sep- 
tember. 1815.  The  Causes  CfUbret  was  a  French  collection  of 
accounts  of  celebrated  criminal  trials. 

» A  novel,  published  1796. 


242  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

heroine  of  the  story,  the  once  innocent  and  beautiful  Han- 
nah, is  brought  by  a  series  of  misfortunes  and  crimes 
(the  effect  of  a  misplaced  attachment)  to  be  tried  for  her 
life  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  as  her  Judge,  her  former  lover 
and  seducer,  is  about  to  pronounce  sentence  upon  her, 
she  calls  out  in  an  agony — "Oh!  not  from  you!"  and,  as 
the  Hon.  Mr.  Norwynne  proceeds  to  finish  his  solemn 
address,  falls  in  a  swoon,  and  is  taken  senseless  from 
the  bar.  I  know  nothing  in  the  world  so  affecting  as  this. 
Now  if  Mrs.  Inchbald  had  merely  found  this  story  in  the 
Newgate  Calendar,^  and  transplanted  it  into  a  novel,  I 
conceive  that  her  merit  in  point  of  genius  (not  to  say 
feeling)  would  be  less  than  if,  having  all  the  other  cir- 
cumstances given,  and  the  apparatus  ready,  and  this  ex- 
planation alone  left  blank,  she  had  filled  it  up  from  her 
own  heart,  that  is,  from  an  intense  conception  of  the  situ- 
ation of  the  parties,  so  that  from  the  harrowing  recol- 
lections passing  through  the  mind  of  the  poor  girl  so 
circumstanced  this  uncontrollable  gush  of  feeling  would 
burst  from  her  lips.  Just  such  I  apprehend,  generally 
speaking,  is  the  amount  of  the  difference  between  the 
genius  of  Shakespeare  and  that  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  It 
is  the  difference  between  originality  and  the  want  of  it, 
between  writing  and  transcribing.  Almost  all  the  finest 
scenes  and  touches,  the  great  master  strokes,  in  Shake- 
speare are  such  as  must  have  belonged  to  the  class  of  in- 
vention, where  the  secret  lay  between  him  and  his  own 
heart,  and  the  power  exerted  is  in  adding  to  the  given 
materials  and  working  something  out  of  them.  In  the 
author  of  Waverley,  not  all,  but  the  principal  and  char- 
acteristic beauties  are  such  as  may  and  do  belong  to  the 
class  of  compilation, — that  is,  consist  in  bringing  the  ma- 
terials together  and  leaving  them  to  produce  their  own 
effect.  Sir  Walter  Scott  is  much  such  a  writer  as  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  is  a  general  (I  am  profaning  a 
number  of  great  names  in  this  article  by  unequal  com- 
parisons). The  one  gets  a  hundred  thousand  men  to- 
gether, and  wisely  leaves  it  to  them  to  fight  out  the  bat- 
tle, for  if  he  meddled  with  it  he  might  spoil  sport;  the 
other  gets   an   innimierable  quantity   of  facts   together, 

'A  record  of  criminals  confined  in  Newgate  Prison. 


HAZLITT  243 

and  lets  them  tell  their  own  story,  as  best  they  may.  The 
facts  are  stubborn  in  the  last  instance  as  the  men  are  in 
the  first,  and  in  neither  case  is  the  broth  spoiled  by  the 
cook.  This  abstinence  from  interfering  with  their  re- 
sources, lest  they  should  defeat  their  own  success,  shows 
great  modesty  and  self-knowledge  in  the  compiler  of  ro- 
mances and  the  leader  of  armies,  but  little  boldness  or 
inventiveness  of  genius.  We  begin  to  measure  Shake- 
speare's height  from  the  superstructure  of  passion  and 
fancy  he  has  raised  out  of  his  subject  and  story,  on 
which,  too,  rests  the  triumphal  arch  of  his  fame;  if  we 
were  to  take  away  the  subject  and  story,  the  portrait  and 
history,  from  the  Scotch  Novels,  no  great  deal  would  be 
left  worth  talking  about. 

No  one  admires  or  delights  in  the  Scotch  Novels  more 
than  I  do;  but  at  the  same  time  when  I  hear  it  asserted 
that  his  mind  is  of  the  same  class  with  Shakespeare's, 
or  that  he  imitates  nature  in  the  same  way,  I  confess  I 
cannot  assent  to  it.  No  two  things  appear  to  me  more 
different.  Sir  Walter  is  an  imitator  of  nature  and  noth- 
ing more;  but  I  think  Shakespeare  is  infinitely  more  than 
this.  The  creative  principle  is  everywhere  restless  and 
redundant  in  Shakespeare,  both  as  it  relates  to  the  in- 
vention of  feeling  and  imagery ;  in  the  author  of  Waverley 
it  lies  for  the  most  part  dormant,  sluggish,  and  unused. 
Sir  Walter's  mind  is  full  of  information,  but  the  "o'erin- 
forming  power"  is  not  there.  Shakespeare's  spirit,  like 
fire,  shines  through  him:  Sir  Walter's,  like  a  stream,  re- 
flects surrounding  objects.  It  is  true  he  has  shifted  the 
scene  from  Scotland  into  England  and  France,  and  the 
manners  and  characters  are  strikingly  English  and 
French;  but  this  does  not  prove  that  they  are  not  local, 
and  that  they  are  not  borrowed,  as  well  as  the  scenery 
and  the  costume,  from  comparatively  obvious  and  me- 
chanical sources.  Nobody  from  reading  Shakespeare 
■would  know  (except  from  the  dramatis  personce)  that 
Lear  was  an  English  king.  He  is  merely  a  king  and  a 
father.  The  ground  is  common :  but  what  a  well  of  tears 
has  he  dug  out  of  it  I  The  tradition  is  nothing,  or  a 
foolish  one.  There  are  no  data  in  history  to  go  upon; 
no  advantage  is  taken  of  costume,  no  acquaintance  with 
geography  or  architecture  or  dialect  is  necessary:   but 


844  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

there  is  an  old  tradition,  human  nature — an  old  temple, 
the  human  mind — and  Shakespeare  walks  into  it  and 
looks  about  him  with  a  lordly  eye,  and  seizes  on  the  sa- 
cred spoils  as  his  own.  The  story  is  a  thousand  or  two 
years  old>  and  yet  the  tragedy  has  no  smack  of  anti- 
quarianism  in  it.  I  should  like  very  well  to  see  Sir  Wal- 
ter giving  us  a  tragedy  o'i  this  kind,  a  huge  "globose" 
of  sorrow,  swinging  round  in  mid-air,  independent  of 
time,  place,  or  circumstance,  sustained  by  its  own  weight 
and  motion,  and  not  propped  up  by  the  levers  of  custom, 
or  patched  up  with  quaint,  old-fashioned  dresses,  or  set 
off  by  grotesque  backgrounds  or  rusty  armor,  but  in  which 
the  mere  paraphernalia  and  accessories  were  left  out  of 
the  question,  and  nothing  but  the  soul  of  passion  and  the 
pith  of  imagination  was  to  be  found.  "A  dukedom  to  a 
beggarly  denier,"  he  would  make  nothing  of  it.  Does  this 
prove  he  has  done  nothing,  or  that  he  had  not  done  the 
greatest  things  ?  No,  but  that  he  is  not  like  Shakespeare. 
For  instance,  when  Lear  says,  "The  little  dogs  and  all. 
Tray,  Blanche,  and  Sweetheart,  see  they  bark  at  me !"  * 
there  is  no  old  chronicle  of  the  line  of  Brute,  no  black- 
letter  broadside,  no  tattered  ballad,  no  vague  rumor,  in 
which  this  exclamation  is  registered;  there  is  nothing 
romantic,  quaint,  mysterious  in  the  objects  introduced: 
the  illustration  is  borrowed  from  the  commonest  and 
most  casual  images  in  nature,  and  yet  it  is  this  very 
circimastance  that  lends  its  extreme  force  to  the  ex- 
pression of  his  grief  by  showing  that  even  the  lowest 
things  in  creation,  and  the  last  you  would  think  of,  had 
in  his  imagination  turned  against  him.  All  nature  was, 
as  he  supposed,  in  a  conspiracy  against  him,  and  the 
most  trivial  and  insignificant  creatures  concerned  in  it 
were  the  most  striking  proofs  of  its  malignity  and  extent. 
It  is  the  depth  of  passion,  however,  or  of  the  poet's  sym- 
pathy with  it,  that  distinguished  this  character  of  tor- 
turing familiarity  in  them,  invests  them  with  correspond- 
ing importance,  and  suggests  them  by  the  force  of  con- 
trast. It  is  not  that  certain  images  are  surcharged  with 
a  prescriptive  influence  over  the  imagination  from  known 
and  existing  prejudices,  so  that  to  approach  or  even  men- 

*KiHO  Lear,  III,  vi,  65.     Compare  page  226. 


HAZLITT  245 

tion  them  is  sure  to  excite  a  pleasing  awe  and  horror 
in  the  mind  (the  effect  in  this  case  is  mostly  mechan- 
ical),— the  whole  sublimity  of  the  passage  is  from  the 
weight  of  passion  thrown  into  it,  and  this  is  the  poet's 
own  doing.  This  is  not  trick,  but  genius.  Meg  Mirrilies 
on  her  death-bed  says,  "Lay  my  head  to  the  East !"  '^  Noth- 
ing can  be  finer  or  more  thrilling  than  this  in  its  way; 
but  the  author  has  little  to  do  with  it.  It  is  an  Oriental 
superstition;  it  is  a  proverbial  expression;  it  is  part  of 
the  gibberish  (sublime  though  it  be)  of  her  gypsy  clanl 
"Nothing  but  his  unkind  daughters  could  have  brought 
him  to  this  pass."  •  This  is  not  a  cant  phrase,  nor  the 
fragment  of  an  old  legend,  nor  a  mysterious  spell,  nor 
the  butt-end  of  a  wizard's  denunciation.  It  is  the  mere 
natural  ebullition  of  passion,  urged  nearly  to  madness, 
and  that  will  admit  no  other  cause  of  dire  misfortune 
but  its  own,  which  swallows  up  all  other  griefs.  The 
force  of  despair  hurries  the  imagination  over  the  boundary 
of  fact  and  common  sense,  and  renders  the  transition 
sublime;  but  there  is  no  precedent  or  authority  for  it, 
except  in  the  general  nature  of  the  human  mind.  I  think, 
but  am  not  sure,  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  imitated 
this  turn  of  reflection,  by  making  Madge  Wildfire  ^  ascribe 
Jenny  Deans's  uneasiness  to  the  loss  of  her  baby,  which 
had  unsettled  her  brain.  Again,  Lear  calls  on  the  Heav- 
ens to  take  his  part,  for  ''they  are  old  like  him."  *  Here 
there  is  nothing  to  prop  up  the  image  but  the  strength  of 
passion,  confounding  the  infirmity  of  age  with  the  sta- 
bility of  the  firmament,  and  equaling  the  complainant, 
through  the  sense  of  suffering  and  wrong,  with  the  maj- 
esty of  the  Highest.  This  finding  out  a  parallel  between 
the  most  unlike  objects,  because  the  individual  would  wish 
to  find  one  to  support  the  sense  of  his  own  misery  and 
helplessness,  is  truly  Shakespearean;  it  is  an  instinctive 
law  of  our  nature,  and  the  genuine  inspiration  of  the 
Muse.  Racine  (but  let  me  not  anticipate)  would  make 
him  pour  out  three  hundred  verses  of  lamentation  for  his 

6  Guy  Mannerinff,  chapter  65.  But  Meg  said,  "The  feet  to  the 
East." 

^  King  Lear,  III.  iv,  65;  bat  Inaccurately  quoted.  Compare 
Coleridge,   page  101. 

^  A  mad  character  in  The  Heart  of  Midlothtan. 

•  II,  iv,  194. 


246  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

loss  of  kingdom,  his  feebleness,  and  his  old  age,  coming 
to  the  same  conclusion  at  the  end  of  every  third  couplet, 
instead  of  making  him  grasp  at  once  at  the  Heavens  for 
support.  The  witches  in  Macbeth  are  traditional,  preter- 
natural personages;  and  there  Sir  Walter  would  have 
left  them,  after  making  what  use  of  them  he  pleased 
as  a  sort  of  Gothic  machinery.  Shakespeare  makes  some- 
thing more  of  them,  and  adds  to  the  mystery  by  explain- 
ing it: 

The  earth  hath  bubbles  as  the  water  hath, 
And  these  are  of  them.' 

We  have  their  physiognomy  too: 

And  enjoin'd  silence, 
By  each  at  once  her  choppy  finger  laying 
Upon  her  skinny  lip." 

And  the  mode  of  their  disappearance  is  thus  described : 

And  then  they  melted  into  thin  air." 

What  an  idea  is  here  conveyed  of  silence  and  vacancy! 
The  geese  of  Micklestane  Muir  (the  countrywoman  and 
her  flock  of  geese  turned  into  stone)  in  The  Black  Dwarf 
are  a  fine  and  petrifying  metamorphosis;  but  it  is  the 
tradition  of  the  country  and  no  more.  Sir  Walter  has 
told  us  nothing  farther  of  it  than  the  first  clown  whom 
we  might  ask  concerning  it.  I  do  not  blame  him  for  that, 
though  I  cannot  give  him  credit  for  what  he  has  not  done. 
The  poetry  of  a  novel  is  a  fixture  of  the  spot.  Meg  Mir- 
rilies  I  also  allow,  with  all  possible  good-will,  to  be  a  most 
romantic  and  astounding  personage;  yet  she  is  a  little 
melodramatic.  Her  exits  and  entrances  are  pantomimic, 
and  her  long  red  cloak,  her  elf-locks,  the  rock  on  which 
she  stands,  and  the  white  cloud  behind  her,  are  or  might 
ibe  made  the  property  of  a  theater.  Shakespeare's  witches 
:are   nearly   exploded    on   the   stage.    Their   broomsticks 

0  Macbeth.   I,   Hi.   79. 

">  I,  111.  44  ;  only  the  second  and  third  lines  are  Shakespeare's. 
"  Hazlttt  confuses  line  81   ("Into  the  air")   with  The  Tetnpe$t, 
IV,  i.  150. 


HAZLITT  247 

are  left;  their  metaphysics  are  gone,  buried  five  editions 
deep  in  Captain  Medwin's  Conversations !  ^*  The  passion 
of  Othello  is  made  out  of  nothing  but  itself;  there  is  no 
external  machinery  to  help  it  on ;  its  highest  intermediate 
agent  is  an  old-fashioned  pocket  handkerchief.  Yet 
"there's  magic  in  the  web"  of  thoughts  and  feelings,  done 
after  the  commonest  pattern  of  human  life.  The  power 
displayed  in  it  is  that  of  intense  passion  and  powerful 
intellect,  wielding  every-day  events,  and  imparting  its 
force  to  them,  not  swayed  or  carried  along  by  them  as  in 
a  go-cart.  The  splendor  is  that  of  genius  darting  out  its 
forked  flame  on  whatever  comes  in  its  way,  and  kindling 
or  melting  it  in  the  furnace  of  affection,  whether  it  be  flax 
or  iron.  The  coloring,  the  form,  the  motion,  the  com- 
bination of  objects  depend  on  the  predisposition  of  the 
mind,  molding  nature  to  its  own  purposes;  in  Sir  Walter 
the  mind  is  as  wax  to  circumstances,  and  owns  no  other 
impress.  Shakespeare  is  a  half-worker  with  nature.  Sir 
Walter  is  like  a  man  who  has  got  a  romantic  spinning- 
jenny,  which  he  has  only  to  set  a-going,  and  it  does  his 
work  for  him  much  better  and  faster  than  he  can  do  it 
for  himself.  He  lays  an  embargo  on  "all  appliances  and 
means  to  boot,"  on  history,  tradition,  local  scenery,  cos- 
tume and  manners,  and  makes  his  characters  chiefly  up 
of  these.  Shakespeare  seizes  only  on  the  ruling  passion, 
and  miraculously  evolves  all  the  rest  from  it.  The  eager- 
ness of  desire  suggests  every  possible  event  that  can  irri- 
tate or  thwart  it,  foresees  all  obstacles,  catches  at  every 
trifle,  clothes  itself  with  imagination  and  tantalizes  itself 
with  hope;  "sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt," 
starts  at  a  phantom,  and  makes  the  universe  tributary  to 
it,  and  the  plaything  of  its  fancy.  There  is  none  of  this 
overweening  importunity  of  the  imagination  in  the  author 
of  Waverley;  he  does  his  work  well,  but  in  another-guess 
manner.  His  imagination  is  a  matter-of-fact  imagination. 
To  return  to  Othello.  Take  the  celebrated  dialogue  in  the 
third  act.  "  'Tis  common."  There  is  nothing  but  the 
writhinga  and  contortings  of  the  heart,  probed  by  afflic- 
tion's point,  as  the  flesh  shrinks  under  the  surgeon's  knife. 
All  its  starts  and  flaws  are  but  the  conflicts  and  misgiv- 

"  Thomas    Medwin's    Conver$atlon9   icith    Lord    Byron,    1824,    a 
book  which  ran  into  several  editions. 


248  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

ings  of  hope  and  fear,  in  the  most  ordinary  but  trying 
circumstances.  The  "Not  a  jot,  not  a  jot"  ^^  has  nothing 
to  do  with  any  old  legend  or  prophecy.  It  is  only  the  last 
poor  effort  of  human  hope,  taking  refuge  on  the  lips. 
When,  after  being  infected  with  jealousy  by  lago,  he 
retires  apparently  comforted  and  resigned,  and  then,  with- 
out anything  having  happened  in  the  interim,  returns 
stung  to  madness,  crowned  with  his  wrongs,  and  raging 
for  revenge,  the  effect  is  like  that  of  poison  inflaming 
the  blood,  or  like  fire  inclosed  in  a  furnace.  The  sole  prin- 
ciple of  invention  is  the  sympathy  with  the  natural  re- 
vulsion of  the  human  mind,  and  its  involuntary  transi- 
tion from  false  security  to  uncontrollable  fury.  The 
springs  of  mental  passion  are  fretted  and  wrought  to  mad- 
ness, and  produce  this  explosion  in  the  poet's  breast.  So 
when  Othello  swears  "By  yon  marble  heaven,"  the  epithet 
is  suggested  by  the  hardness  of  his  heart  from  the  sense 
of  injury:  the  texture  of  the  outward  object  is  borrowed 
from  that  of  the  thoughts ;  and  that  noble  simile,  **Like  the 
Propontic,"  etc.,^*  seems  only  an  echo  of  the  sounding 
tide  of  passion,  and  to  roll  from  the  same  source,  the  heart. 
The  dialogue  between  Hubert  and  Arthur,*^  and  that  be- 
tween Brutus  and  Cassius,^^  are  among  the  finest  illustra- 
tions of  the  same  principle,  which  indeed  is  everywhere 
predominant  (perhaps  to  a  fault)  in  Shakespeare.  His 
genius  is  like  the  Nile  overflowing  and  enriching  its 
banks;  that  of  Sir  Walter  is  like  a  mountain  strieam 
rendered  interesting  by  the  picturesqueness  of  the  sur- 
rounding scenery.  Shakespeare  produces  his  most  strik- 
ing dramatic  effects  out  of  the  workings  of  the  finest  and 
most  intense  passions;  Sir  Walter  places  his  dramatis 
persorue  in  romantic  situations,  and  subjects  them  to 
extraordinary  occurrences,  and  narrates  the  results.  The 
one  gives  us  what  we  see  and  hear,  the  other' what  we  are. 
Hamlet  is  not  a  person  whose  nativity  is  cast,  or  whose 
death  is  foretold  by  portents:  he  weaves  the  web  of  his 
destiny  out  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  a  very  quaint  and 
singular  one  it  is.     We  have,  I  think,  a  stronger  fellow- 

"III,  111,  215. 

"See  p.  227. 

»  King  John,  IV,  1. 

'•  JmMo«  Catar.  I,  11  or  IV,  IIL 


HAZLITT  249 

feeling  with  him  that  we  have  with  Bertram  "  or  Waver- 
ley.  All  men  feel  and  think,  more  or  less ;  but  we  are  not 
all  foundlings,  Jacobites,  or  astrologers.  We  might  have 
been  overturned  with  these  gentlemen  in  a  stage-coach ;  we 
seem  to  have  been  schoolfellows  with  Hamlet  at  Witten- 
berg. 

I  will  not  press  this  argument  further,  lest  I  should 
make  it  tedious,  and  run  into  questions  I  have  no  inten- 
tion to  meddle  with.  All  I  mean  to  insist  upon  is,  that 
Sir  Walter's  forte  is  in  the  richness  and  variety  of  hia 
materials,  and  Shakespeare's  in  the  working  them  up. 
Sir  Walter  is  distinguished  by  the  most  amazing  re- 
tentiveness  of  memory,  and  vividness  of  conception  of 
what  would  happen,  be  seen,  and  felt  by  everybody  in 
given  circumstances;  as  Shakespeare  is  by  inventiveness 
of  genius,  by  a  faculty  of  tracing  and  unfolding  the  most 
hidden  yet  powerful  springs  of  action,  scarce  recognized 
by  ourselves,  and  by  an  endless  and  felicitous  range  of 
poetical  illustration,  added  to  a  wide  scope  of  reading 
and  of  knowledge.  One  proof  of  the  justice  of  these  re- 
marks is  that,  whenever  Sir  Walter  comes  to  a  truly 
dramatic  situation,  he  declines  it  or  fails.  Thus  in  The 
Black  Dwarf,  all  that  relates  to  the  traditions  respecting 
this  mysterious  personage,  to  the  superstitious  stories 
founded  on  it,  is  admirably  done  and  to  the  life,  with  all 
the  spirit  and  freedom  of  originality;  but  when  he  comes 
to  the  last  scene,  for  which  all  the  rest  is  a  preparation, 
and  which  is  full  of  the  highest  interest  and  passion, 
nothing  is  done;  instead  of  an  address  from  Sir  Edward 
Mauley,  recounting  the  miseries  of  his  whole  life,  and 
withering  up  his  guilty  rival  with  the  recital,  the  Dwarf 
enters  with  a  strange  rustling  noise,  the  opposite  doors 
fly  open,  and  the  afTrighted  spectators  rush  out  like  the 
figures  in  a  pantomime.  This  is  not  dramatic,  but  melo- 
dramatic. There  is  a  palpable  disappointment  and  fall- 
ing off,  where  the  interest  had  been  worked  up  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  expectation.  The  gratifying  of  this  ap- 
palling curiosity  and  interest  was  all  that  was  not  done 
to  Sir  Walter's  hand;  and  this  he  has  failed  to  do.  All 
that  was  known  about  the  Black  Dwarf,  his  figure,  his 

"  In  Ouv  ifannerinff. 


250  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

desolate  habitation,  his  unaccountable  way  of  life,  his 
"Wrongs,  his  bitter  execrations  against  intruders  on  his 
privacy,  the  floating  and  exaggerated  accounts  of  him, 
all  these  are  given  with  a  masterly  and  faithful  hand; 
this  is  matter  of  description  and  narrative:  but  when 
the  true  imaginative  and  dramatic  part  comes,  when  the 
subject  of  this  dramatic  tale  is  to  pour  out  the  accumu- 
lated and  agonizing  effects  of  all  his  series  of  wretched- 
ness and  torture  upon  his  own  mind,  that  is,  when  the 
person  is  to  speak  from  himself  and  to  stun  us  with  the 
recoil  of  passion  upon  external  agents  or  circumstances 
that  have  caused  it,  we  find  that  it  is  Sir  Walter  Scott 
and  not  Shakespeare  that  is  his  counsel-keeper,  that  the 
author  is  a  novelist  and  not  a  poet.  All  that  is  gossiped 
in  the  neighborhood,  all  that  is  handed  down  in  print, 
all  of  which  a  drawing  or  an  etching  might  be  procured, 
is  gathered  together  and  communicated  to  the  public: 
what  the  heart  whispers  to  itself  in  secret,  what  the 
imagination  tells  in  thunder,  this  alone  is  wanting,  and 
this  is  the  great  thing  required  to  make  good  the  com- 
parison in  question.  Sir  Walter  has  not,  then,  imitated 
Shakespeare,  but  he  has  given  us  nature,  such  as  he 
found  ftnd  could  best  describe  it;  and  he  resembles  him 
only  in  this,  that  he  thinks  of  his  characters  and  never 
of  himself,  and  pours  out  his  works  with  such  uncon- 
scious ease  and  prodigality  of  resources  that  he  thinks 
nothing  of  them,  and  is  even  greater  than  his  own  fame. 
The  genius  of  Shakespeare  is  dramatic,  that  of  Scott 
narrative  or  descriptive,  that  of  Kacine  is  didactic.  He 
gives,  as  I  conceive,  the  commonplaces  of  the  human  heart 
better  than  any  one,  but  nothing  or  very  little  more.  He 
enlarges  on  a  set  of  obvious  sentiments  and  well-known 
topics  with  considerable  elegance  of  language  and  copi- 
ousness of  declamation,  but  there  is  scarcely  one  stroke 
of  original  genius,  nor  anything  like  imagination,  in  his 
writings.  He  strings  together  a  number  of  moral  re- 
flections, and,  instead  of  reciting  them  himself,  puts  them 
into  the  mouths  of  his  dramatis  persorue,  who  talk  well 
about  their  own  situations  and  the  general  relations  of 
human  life.  Instead  of  laying  bare  the  heart  of  the  suf- 
ferer with  all  its  bleeding  wounds  and  palpitating  fibers, 
he  puts  into  his  hand  a  commonplace-book,  and  he  reads 


HAZLITT  251 

us  a  lecture  from  this.  This  is  not  the  essence  of  the 
drama,  whose  object  and  privilege  it  is  to  give  us  the 
extreme  and  subtle  workings  of  the  human  mind  in  indi- 
vidual circumstances,  to  make  us  sympathize  with  the  suf- 
ferer, or  feel  as  we  should  feel  in  his  circumstances,  not 
to  tell  the  indifferent  spectator  what  the  indifferent  spec- 
tator could  just  as  well  tell  him.  Tragedy  is  human, 
nature  tried  in  the  crucible  of  affliction,  not  exhibited  in 
the  vague  theorems  of  speculation.  The  poet's  pen  that 
paints  all  this  in  words  of  fire  and  images  of  gold  is 
totally  wanting  in  Kacine.  He  gives  neither  external 
images  nor  the  internal  and  secret  workings  of  the  hu- 
man breast.  Sir  Walter  Scott  gives  the  external  imagery 
or  machinery  of  passion;  Shakespeare  the  soul;  and  Ra- 
cine the  moral  or  argument  of  it.  The  French  object  to 
Shakespeare  for  his  breach  of  the  unities,  and  hold  up 
Racine  as  a  model  of  classical  propriety,  who  makes  a 
Greek  hero  address  a  Grecian  heroine  as  Madame.^'  Yet 
this  is  not  barbarous — Why?  Because  it  is  French,  and 
because  nothing  that  is  French  can  be  barbarous  in  the 
eyes  of  this  frivolous  and  pedantic  nation,  who  would 
prefer  a  peruke  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV  to  a  simple  Greek 
head-dress  I 


LETTER  TO  JOHN  MURRAY,  ESQ.,  ON  THE  REV. 
W.  L.  BOWLES'S  STRICTURES  ON  THE  LIFE 
AND  WRITINGS  OF  POPE 

Lord  Byron 

fin  1806  Rev.  W.  L.  Bowles  edited  the  Works  of  Pope,  and 
in  his  critical  apparatus  discussed  both  the  character  and 
the  poetical  standing  of  Pope  somewhat  unfavorably.  To  thia 
Thomas  Campbell  replied  in  his  Essay  on  Enplish  Poetry,  pre- 
fixed to  his  Specimen*,  of  the  British  Poets,  1819;  and  Bowles 
rejoined  in  an  open  letter  to  Campbell  (of  the  same  year), 
entitled  Invariable  Principles  O)  Poetry.   Some  incidental  men- 

'■  An  example  unfortunately  choBen  for  ITazlitt's  purpose,  since 
it  rather  exemplifies  Racine's  Indlflference  to  historic  detail, — his 
Inetbod  of  presenting  tragic  characters  independent  of  any  par* 
tlcular  time  or  place. 


252  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

tion  of  the  name  of  Byron  gave  the  latter  an  excuse  for  enter* 
ine  the  controversy  in  an  open  letter  addressed  to  his  pub- 
lisner,  Murray,  published  1821.  Once  more  Bowles  retorted 
in  Tvoo  Letters  to  the  Right  Honourable  Lord  Byron  (1821). 
A  second  letter  of  Byron's  remained  unpublished  till  1835. 
Other  pamphleteers  took  part  in  the  controversy,  some  being 
interested  primarily  in  Bowles's  curious  theory  of  the  nature 
of  the  "poetic,"  others  in  the  questions  raised  respecting  Pope's 
personal  character.  The  present  selection  from  Byron's  letter 
of  1821  includes  that  portion  having  to  do  with  poetic  theory. 
Bowles's  view  may  be  represented  summarily  by  the  following 
paragraphs  from  his  original  discussion  in  his  edition  of  Pope, 
as  reprinted  by  him  in  his  Letters  to  Lord  Byron: 

"I  presume  it  will  readily  be  granted  that  all  images  drawn 
from  what  is  beautiful  or  sublime  in  the  works  of  Nature 
are  more  beautiful  and  sublime  than  any  images  drawn  from 
art,  and  that  they  are  therefore,  per  te,  more  poetical. 

"In  like  manner  those  passions  of  the  human  heart  which 
belong  to  Nature  in  general  are,  per  se,  more  adapted  to  the 
higher  species  of  poetry  than  those  which  are  derived  from 
incidental  and  transient  manners.  A  description  of  a  forest 
is  more  poetical  than  a  description  of  a  ciiltivated  garden; 
and  the  passions  which  are  portrayed  in  the  Epistle  of  an 
Eloisa*  render  such  a  poem  more  poetical  (whatever  might  be 
the  diflFerence  of  merit  in  point  of  execution),  intrinsically 
more  poetical,  than  a  poem  founded  on  the  characters,  inci- 
dents, and  modes  of  artificial  life, — for  instance,  The  Rape  of 
the  Lock.  If  this  be  admitted,  the  rule  by  which  we  would 
estimate  Pope's  general  poetical  character  would  be  ob- 
vious. 

"Let  me  not,  however,  be  considered  as  thinking  that  the 
subject  alone  constitutes  poetical  excellency.  The  execution 
is  to  be  taken  into  consideration  at  the  same  time;  for,  with 
Lord  Harvey,  we  might  fall  asleep  over  the  Creation  of 
Blackmore,'  but  be  alive  to  the  touches  of  animation  and 
satire  in  Boileau.  The  subject  and  the  execution,  therefore, 
are  equally  to  be  considered;  the  one  respecting  the  poetry, 
the  other,  the  art  and  powers  of  the  poet.  The  poetical  sub- 
ject and  the  art  and  talents  of  the  poet  should  always  be  kept 
in  mind;  and  I  imagine  it  is  for  want  of  observing  this  rule, 
that  so  much  has  been  said,  and  so  little  understood,  of  the 
real  ground  of  Pope's  character  as  a  poet.  If  you  say  he  is 
not  one  of  the  first  poets  that  England,  and  the  polished 
literature  of  a  polished  era,  can  boast, 

*  Pope'8  poetic  epistle,  "Bloisa  to  Abelard,"  was  published  1717. 
» Sir    Ricbard    Blackmore,    whose    poem    Creation    appeared    In 
1712. 


BOWLES  253 

Recte  necne  crocos  floresque  perambulat  Atti 
Fabula  si  dubitem,  clamant  periBse  pudorem 
Cuncti   pene  patres.* 

If  you  say  that  he  stands  preeminent,  in  the  highest  sense, 
you  must  deny  the  principles  of  criticism,  which  I  imagine 
will  be  acknowledged  by  all. 

"In  speaking  of  the  poetical  subject  and  the  powers  of 
execution:  with  regard  to  the  first,  Pope  cannot  be  classed 
among  the  highest  orders  of  poets;  with  regard  to  the  second, 
none  ever  was  his  superior.  It  is  futile  to  expect  to  judge 
of  one  composition  by  the  rules  of  another.  To  say  that  Pope, 
in  this  sense,  is  not  a  poet,  is  to  say  that  a  didactic  poem 
is  not  a  tragedy,  and  that  a  satire  is  not  an  ode.  Pope  must 
be  judged  according  to  the  rank  in  which  he  stands,  among 
those  whose  delineations  are  taken  more  from  manners  than 
from  Nature.  When  I  say  that  this  is  his  predominant  char- 
acter, I  must  be  insensible  to  everything  exquisite  in  poetry,  if 
I  did  not  except,  instanter,  the  'Epistle  of  Eloisa':  but  this 
can  only  be  considered  according  to  its  class ;  and  if  I  say  that 
it  seems  to  me  superior  to  any  other  of  the  kind,  to  which  it 
might  fairly  be  compared,  such  as  the  Epistles  of  Ovid,  Proper- 
tius,  Tibullus  (I  will  not  mention  Drayton,  and  Pope's  numer- 
ous subsequent  imitations)*;  but  when  this  transcendent  poem 
is  compared  with  those  which  will  bear  the  comparison,  I 
shall  not  be  deemed  as  giving  reluctant  praise,  when  I  de- 
clare my  conviction  of  its  being  infinitely  superior  to  every- 
thing of  the  kind,  ancient  or  modern.  In  this  poem,  there- 
fore. Pope  appears  on  the  high  ground  of  the  poet  of  Nature; 
but  this  certainly  is  not  his  general  character. 

"If  the  premises  laid  down  in  the  commencement  of  these 
reflections  be  true,  no  one  can  stand  preeminent  as  a  great 
descriptive  poet  unless  he  have  an  eye  attentive  to  and  familiar 
with  every  external  appearance  that  [Nature]  may  exhibit, 
in  every  change  of  season,  every  variation  of  light  and  shade. 
He  who  has  not  an  eye  to  observe  these,  and  who  cannot  with 
a  glance  distinguish  every  diversity  of  every  hue  in  her  variety 
of  beauties,  must  so  far  be  deficient  in  one  of  the  essential 
qualities  of  a  poet.  Here  Pope,  from  infirmities  and  from 
physical  causes,  was  particularly  deficient.  Wlien  he  loft 
nis  own  laural  circus  at  Twickenham,  he  was  lifted  into  his 
chariot    or    his    barge;    and    with    weak    eyes,    and    tottering 

»  "If  I  doubt  whether  It  Is  rljfhtly  or  not  that  a  play  of  Atta'a 
moves  among  perfumes  and  flowers  (I.  e..  Is  flatterinRly  received), 
almost  all  the  old  men  would  cry  out  that  modesty  has  perished." 
(Horace,  Epistles,  II,  1,  79-81.) 

*  Drayton  published  Ucroical  Epistles,  imaginatively  attributed 
to  historic  persons,  and  Pope  various  Epistles  to  his  friends. 


254  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

strength,  it  is  physically  impossible  he  could  be  a  descriptive 
bard.  Where  description  has  been  introduced  among  his 
poems,  as  far  as  his  observation  could  go,  he  excelled;  more 
could  not  be  expected.  In  the  descriptions  of  the  cloister, 
the  scenes  surrounding  the  melancholy  convent,  as  far  as  could 
be  gained  by  books,  suggested  by  imagination,  he  was  emi- 
nently successful;  but  even  here,  perhaps,  he  only  proved 
that  he  could  not  go  far;    and 

The  streams  that  shine  between  the  hills, 
The  grots  that  echo  to  the  tinkling  rills, 

were  possibly  transcripts  of  what  he  could  most  easily  tran- 
scribe,— his  own  views  and  scenery.  'But  how  different,  how 
minute  is  his  description,  when  he  describes  what  he  is  master 
of;  for  instance,  the  game  of  ombre,  in  The  Rape  of  the  Lock! 
This  is  from  artificial  life;  and  with  artificial  life,  from  his 
infirmities,  he  must  have  been  chiefly  conversant.  But  if  he 
had  been  gifted  with  the  same  powers  of  observing  outward 
Nature,  I  have  no  doubt  he  would  have  evinced  as  much 
accuracy  in  describing  the  appropriate  and  peculiar  beauties, 
such  as  Nature  exhibits  in  the  Forest  where  he  lived,  as  he 
was  able  to  describe,  in  a  manner  so  novel,  and  with  colours 
so  vivid,  a  game  of  cards.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  his 
Windsor  Forest  and  his  pastorals  must  ever  appear  so  defec- 
tive to  a  lover  of  Nature.  Pope,  therefore,  wisely  left  this 
part  of  his  art,  which  Thomson,  and  many  other  poets  since 
his  time,  have  cultivated  with  so  much  more  success,  and 
turned  to  what  he  calls  the  'moral*  of  the  song.*  I  need  not 
go  regularly  over  his  works ;  but  I  think  they  may  be  generally 
divided  under  the  heads  I  have  mentioned:  Pathetic,  Sublime, 
Descriptive,  Moral,  and  Satirical.  In  the  pathetic,  poetically 
considered,  he  stands  highest;  in  the  sublime  he  is  deficient; 
in  descriptions  from  Nature,  for  reasons  given,  still  more  so. 
He  therefore  pursued  that  path  in  poetry  which  was  more 
congenial  to  his  powers,  and  in  which  he  has  shone  without 
a  rival."] 

...  I  now  come  to  Mr.  Bowles's  "invariable  principlea 
of  poetry."  These  Mr.  Bowles  and  some  of  his  cor- 
respondents pronounce  "unanswerable";  and  they  are 
''unanswered,"  at  least  by  Campbell,  who  seems  to  have 
been  astounded  at  the  title.  The  sultan  of  the  time  being 
offered  to  ally  himself  to  a  king  of  France  because  "he 
hated  the  word  league";  which  proves  that  the  Padishah 

•See  p.  268. 


BYEON  255 

understood  French.  Mr.  Campbell  has  no  need  of  my  al- 
liance, nor  shall  I  presume  to  offer  it;  but  I  do  hate  that 
word  "invariable."  What  is  there  of  human,  be  it  poetry, 
philosophy,  wit,  wisdom,  science,  power,  glory,  mind,  mat- 
ter, life,  or  death,  which  is  "invariable"  ?  Of  course  I  put 
things  divine  out  of  the  question.  Of  all  arrogant  bap- 
tisms of  a  book,  this  title  to  a  pamphlet  appears  the  most 
complacently  conceited.  It  is  Mr.  Campbell's  part  to  an- 
swer the  contents  of  this  performance,  and  especially  to 
vindicate  his  own  "ship,"  which  Mr.  Bowles  most  tri- 
umphantly proclaims  to  have  struck  to  his  very  first  fire: 

Quoth  he,  There  was  a  ship; 

Now  let  me  go,  thou  grey-hair'd  loon. 

Or  my  staff  shall  make  thee  skip.' 

It  is  no  affair  of  mine,  but  having  once  begun  (certainly 
not  by  my  own  wish,  but  called  upon  by  the  frequent  re- 
currence to  my  name  in  the  pamphlets),  I  am  like  an 
Irishman  in  a  "row,"  "anybody's  customer."  I  shall 
therefore  say  a  word  or  two  on  the  "ship." 

Mr.  Bowles  asserts  that  Campbell's  "ship  of  the  line" 
derives  all  its  poetry,  not  from  "art,"  but  from  "nature." 
"Take  away  the  waves,  the  winds,  the  sun,  etc.,  etc.,  one 
•will  become  a  stripe  of  blue  bunting,  and  the  other  a 
piece  of  coarse  canvas  on  three  tall  poles."  Very  true; 
take  away  the  "waves,"  "the  winds,"  and  there  will  be  no 
ship  at  all,  not  only  for  poetical,  but  for  any  other  pur- 
pose; and  take  away  "the  sun,"  and  we  must  read  Mr. 
Bowles's  pamphlet  by  candle-light.  But  the  "poetry"  of 
the  "ship"  does  not  depend  on  "the  waves,"  etc.;  on  the 
contrary,  the  "ship  of  the  line"  confers  its  own  poetry 
upon  the  waters,  and  heightens  theirs.  I  do  not  deny  that 
the  "waves  and  winds,"  and  above  all  "the  sun,"  are  highly 
poetical ;  we  know  it  to  our  cost,  by  the  many  descriptions 
of  them  in  verse:  but  if  the  waves  bore  only  the  foam 
upon  their  bosoms,  if  the  winds  wafted  only  the  sea-weed 
to  the  shore,  if  the  sun  shone  neither  upon  pyramids,  nor 
fleets,  nor  fortresses,  would  its  beams  bo  equally  poetical? 
I  think  not :  the  poetry  is  at  least  reciprocal.     Take  away 

'  Prom  "The  Ancient  Mariner,"  third  stanza.  In  the  orifdnal 
version  (which  read,  however,  "Now  get  thee  hence"  instead  of 
"Now  let  me  go"). 


256  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

"the  ship  of  the  line"  "swinging  round"  the  "calm  water," 
and  the  calm  water  becomes  a  somewhat  monotonous  thing 
to  look  at,  particularly  if  not  transparently  clear;  witness 
the  thousands  who  pass  by  without  looking  at  it  at  all. 
What  was  it  attracted  the  thousands  to  the  launch?  they 
might  have  seen  the  poetical  "calm  water"  at  Wapping, 
or  in  the  London  Dock,  or  in  the  Paddington  Canal,  or  in 
a  horse-pond,  or  in  a  slop-basin,  or  in  any  other  vase. 
They  might  have  heard  the  poetical  winds  howling 
through  the  chinks  of  a  pig-sty,  or  the  garret  window; 
they  might  have  seen  the  sun  shining  on  a  footman's 
livery,  or  on  a  brass  warming-pan;  but  could  the  "calm 
water,"  or  the  "wind,"  or  the  "sun,"  make  all  or  any  of 
these  "poetical"?  I  think  not.  Mr.  Bowles  admits  "the 
ship"  to  be  poetical,  but  only  from  these  accessories :  now 
if  they  confer  poetry  so  as  to  make  one  thing  poetical, 
they  would  make  other  things  poetical;  the  more  so,  as 
Mr.  Bowles  calls  a  "ship  of  the  line"  without  them, — that 
is  to  say,  its  "masts  and  sails  and  streamers," — "blue 
bunting,"  and  "coarse  canvas,"  and  "tall  poles."  So  they 
are;  and  porcelain  is  clay,  and  man  is  dust,  and  flesh  is 
grass,  and  yet  the  two  latter  at  least  are  the  subjects  of 
much  poesy. 

Did  Mr.  Bowles  ever  gaze  upon  the  sea?  I  presume 
that  he  has,  at  least  upon  a  sea-piece.  Did  any  painter 
ever  paint  the  sea  only,  without  the  addition  of  a  ship, 
boat,  wreck,  or  some  such  adjunct?  Is  the  sea  itself  a 
more  attractive,  a  more  moral,  a  more  poetical  object, 
with  or  without  a  vessel,  breaking  its  vast  but  fatiguing 
monotony?  Is  a  storm  more  poetical  without  a  ship?  or, 
in  the  poem  of  The  Shipwrech,^  is  it  the  storm  or  the  ship 
which  most  interests  ?  Both  much  undoubtedly ;  but  with- 
out the  vessel,  what  should  we  care  for  the  tempest?  It 
would  sink  into  mere  descriptive  poetry,  which  in  itself 
was  never  esteemed  a  high  order  of  that  art. 

I  look  upon  myself  as  entitled  to  talk  of  naval  matters, 
at  least  to  poets: — with  the  exception  of  Walter  Scott, 
Moore,  and  Southey,  perhaps,  who  have  been  voyagers,  I 
have  swam  more  miles  than  all  the  rest  of  them  together 
now  living  ever  sailed,  and  have  lived  for  months  and 

»By  William  Falconer,  1762. 


BYRON  267 

months  on  shipboard;  and,  during  the  whole  period  of  my 
life  abroad,  have  scarcely  ever  passed  a  month  out  of 
sight  of  the  ocean:  besides  being  brought  up  from  two 
years  till  ten  on  the  brink  of  it.  I  recollect,  when  an- 
chored off  Cape  SigsBum  in  1810,  in  an  English  frigate, 
a  violent  squall  coming  on  at  sunset,  so  violent  as  to 
make  us  imagine  that  the  ship  would  part  cable,  or  drive 
from  her  anchorage.  Mr.  Hobhouse  and  myself,  and 
some  officers,  had  been  up  the  Dardanelles  to  Abydos,  and 
were  just  returned  in  time.  The  aspect  of  a  storm  in 
the  Archipelago  is  as  poetical  as  need  be,  the  sea  being 
particularly  short,  dashing,  and  dangerous,  and  the  navi- 
gation intricate  and  broken  by  the  isles  and  currents. 
Cape  Sigaeum,  the  tumuli  of  the  Troad,  Lemnos,  Tenedos, 
all  added  to  the  associations  of  the  time.  But  what 
seemed  the  most  "poetical"  of  all,  at  the  moment,  were 
the  numbers  (about  two  hundred)  of  Greek  and  Turkish 
craft,  which  were  obliged  to  "cut  and  run"  before  the 
wind,  from  their  unsafe  anchorage,  some  for  Tenedos, 
some  for  other  isles,  some  for  the  main,  and  some,  it 
might  be,  for  eternity.  The  sight  of  these  little  scudding 
vessels,  darting  over  the  foam  in  the  twilight,  now  ap- 
pearing and  now  disappearing  between  the  waves  in  the 
cloud  of  night,  with  their  peculiarly  white  sails  (the 
Levant  sails  not  being  of  "coarse  canvas,"  but  of  white 
cotton)  skimming  along  as  quickly,  but  less  safely,  than 
the  sea-mews  which  hovered  over  them;  their  evident 
distress,  their  reduction  to  fluttering  specks  in  the  dis- 
tance, their  crowded  succession,  their  littleness,  as  con- 
tending with  the  giant  elements  which  made  our  stout 
forty-four's  teak  timbers  (she  was  built  in  India)  creak 
again;  their  aspect  and  their  motion, — all  struck  me  as 
something  far  more  "poetical"  than  the  mere  broad, 
brawling,  shipless  sea,  and  the  sullen  winds,  could  pos- 
sibly have  been  without  them. 

The  Euxine  is  a  noble  sea  to  look  upon,  and  the  port 
of  Constantinople  the  most  beautiful  of  harbors,  and 
yet  I  cannot  but  think  that  the  twenty  sail  of  the  line, 
some  of  one  hundred  and  forty  guns,  rendered  it  more 
"poetical"  by  day  in  the  sun,  and  by  night  perhaps  still 
more,  for  the  Turks  illuminate  their  vessels  of  war  in  a 
manner  the  most  picturesque :  and  yet  all  this  is  artificial. 


258  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

As  for  the  Euxine,  I  stood  upon  the  Symplegades — I 
stood  by  the  broken  altar  still  exposed  to  the  winds  upon 
one  of  them — I  felt  all  the  ''poetry"  of  the  situation,  as 
I  repeated  the  first  lines  of  Medea;  '  but  would  not  that 
"poetry"  have  been  heightened  by  the  Argof  It  was  so 
even  by  the  appearance  of  any  merchant-vessel  arriving 
from  Odessa.  But  Mr.  Bowles  says,  "Why  bring  your 
ship  off  the  stocks?"  For  no  reason  that  I  know  except 
that  ships  are  built  to  be  launched.  The  water,  etc.,  un- 
doubtedly heightens  the  poetical  associations,  but  it  does 
not  mahe  them;  and  the  ship  amply  repays  the  obliga- 
tion: they  aid  each  other;  the  water  is  more  poetical  with 
the  ship — the  ship  less  so  without  the  water.  But  even 
a  ship  laid  up  in  dock  is  a  grand  and  poetical  sight. 
Even  an  old  boat,  keel  upwards,  wrecked  upon  the  barren 
sand,  is  a  "poetical"  object  (and  Wordsworth,  who  made 
a  poem  about  a  washing-tub  and  a  blind  boy,*  may  tell 
you  so  as  well  as  I),  whilst  a  long  extent  of  sand  and 
unbroken  water,  without  the  boat,  would  be  as  like  dull 
prose  as  any  pamphlet  lately  published. 

What  makes  the  poetry  in  the  image  of  the  "marble 
waste  of  Tadmor,"  of  Grainger's  Ode  to  Solitude,^  so 
much  admired  by  Johnson?  Is  it  the  "marble"  or  the 
*'waste,"  the  artificial  or  the  natural  object  ?  The  "waste" 
is  like  all  other  wastes;  but  the  "marble"  of  Palmyra 
makes  the  poetry  of  the  passage  as  of  the  place. 

The  beautiful  but  barren  Hymettus,  the  whole  coast  of 
Attica,  her  hills  and  mountains,  Pentelicus,  Anchesmus, 
Philopappus,  etc.,  etc.,  are  in  themselves  poetical,  and 
would  be  so  if  the  name  of  Athens,  of  Athenians,  and  her 
very  ruins,  were  swept  from  the  earth.  But  I  am  to  be 
told  that  the  "nature"  of  Attica  would  be  more  poetical 
without  the  "art"  of  the  Acropolis?  of  the  temple  of 
Theseus?  and  of  the  still  all  Greek  and  glorious  monu- 
ments of  her  exquisitely  artificial  genius?  Ask  the  trav- 
eler what  strikes  him   as  most  poetical,  the  Parthenon 

*  Would  God  no  Areo  e'er  bad  winged  the  seas 
To  Colchis  through  the  blue  Semplegades ! 

(Gilbert   Murray's  translation.) 

*  "The  Blind  Highland  Boy."  In  the  original  version  or  thig 
poem,  the  blind  boy  set  sail  on  Loch  Leven  in  "a  household  tub" ; 
this  was  altered,  however,  in  the  edition  of  1815,  to  a  turtle- 
shell. 

■By  Dr.  James  Grainger,  1755. 


BYRON  269 

or  the  rock  on  which  it  stands?  The  columns  of  Cape 
Colonna,  or  the  Cape  itself?  The  rocks  at  the  foot  of 
it,  or  the  recollection  that  Falconer's  ship  was  bulged 
upon  them  ?  *  There  are  a  thousand  rocks  and  capes  far 
more  picturesque  than  those  of  the  Acropolis  and  Cape 
Sunium,  in  themselves;  what  are  they  to  a  thousand 
scenes  in  the  wilder  parts  of  Greece,  of  Asia  Minor, 
Switzerland,  or  even  of  Cintra  in  Portugal,  or  to  many 
scenes  of  Italy,  and  the  Sierras  of  Spain?  But  it  is  the 
"art,"  the  columns,  the  temples,  the  wrecked  vessel,  which 
give  them  their  antique  and  their  modern  poetry,  and 
not  the  spots  themselves.  Without  them,  the  spots  of 
earth  would  be  unnoticed  and  unknown;  buried,  like 
Babylon  and  Nineveh,  in  indistinct  confusion,  without 
poetry,  as  without  existence;  but  to  whatever  spot  of 
earth  these  ruins  were  transported,  if  they  were  capable 
of  transportation,  like  the  obelisk,  and  the  sphinx,  and 
the  Memnon's  head,  there  they  would  still  exist  in  the  per- 
fection of  their  beauty,  and  in  the  pride  of  their  poetry. 
I  opposed,  and  will  ever  oppose,  the  robbery  of  ruins  from 
Athens,  to  instruct  the  English  in  sculpture;  but  why 
did  I  do  so?  The  ruins  are  as  poetical  in  Piccadilly  as 
they  were  in  the  Parthenon;  but  the  Parthenon  and  its 
rock  are  less  so  without  them.  Such  is  the  poetry  of  art. 
Mr.  Bowles  contends,  again,  that  the  pyramids  of  Egypt 
are  poetical,  because  of  "the  association  with  boundless 
deserts,"  and  that  a  "pyramid  of  the  same  dimensions" 
would  not  be  sublime  in  "Lincoln's  Inn  Fields."  Not  so 
poetical,  certainly;  but  take  away  the  "pyramids,"  and 
what  is  the  "desert"  ?  Take  away  Stonehonge  from  Salis- 
bury Plain,  and  it  is  nothing  more  than  Hounslow  Heath, 
or  any  other  unenclosed  down.  It  appears  to  me  that 
St.  Peter's,  the  Coliseum,  the  Laocoon,  the  Venus  di 
Medicis,  the  Hercules,  the  Dying  Gladiator,  the  Moses  of 
Michael  Angelo,  and  all  the  higher  works  of  Canova  (I 
have  already  spoken  of  those  of  ancient  Greece,  still  ex- 
tant in  that  country,  or  transported  to  England),  are  as 
poetical  as  Mont  Blanc  or  Mont  -^tna, — perhaps  still  more 
so,  as  they  are  direct  manifestations  of  mind,  and  pre- 

•  In  a  note  on  Chndc  Harold,  canto  U.  stanza  86.  Byron  wrote : 
"Colonna  has  yet  an  additional  interest,  as  the  actual  spot  of 
Falconer's  Shipwreck." 


260  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

suppose  poetry  in  their  very  conception;  and  have,  more- 
over, as  being  such,  a  something  of  actual  life,  which 
cannot  belong  to  any  part  of  inanimate  nature,  unless 
we  adopt  the  system  of  Spinoza,  that  the  world  is  the 
Deity.  There  can  be  nothing  more  poetical  in  its  aspect 
than  the  city  of  Venice;  does  this  depend  upon  the  sea, 
or  the  canals? — 

The  dirt  and  sea- weed  whence  proud  Venice  rose? 

Is  it  the  canal  which  runs  between  the  palace  and  the 
prison,  or  the  "Bridge  of  Sighs,"  which  connects  them, 
that  renders  it  poetical?  Is  it  the  Canale  Grande,  or 
the  Rialto  which  arches  it,  the  churches  which  tower  over 
it,  the  palaces  which  line,  and  the  gondolas  which  glide 
over,  the  waters,  that  render  this  city  more  poetical  than 
Rome  itself?  Mr.  Bowles  will  say,  perhaps,  that  the 
Rialto  is  but  marble,  the  palaces  and  churches  only  stone, 
and  the  gondolas  a  "coarse"  black  cloth,  thrown  over 
some  planks  of  carved  wood,  with  a  shining  bit  of  fan- 
tastically-formed iron  at  the  prow,  "without"  the  water. 
And  I  tell  him  that,  without  these,  the  water  would  be 
nothing  but  a  clay-colored  ditch;  and  whoever  says  the 
contrary  deserves  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  that  where  Pope's 
heroes  are  embraced  by  the  mad  nymphs/  There  would 
be  nothing  to  make  the  canal  of  Venice  more  poetical  than 
that  of  Paddington,  were  it  not  for  the  artificial  adjuncts 
above  mentioned;  although  it  is  a  perfectly  natural  canal, 
formed  by  the  sea  and  the  innumerable  islands  which 
constitute  the  site  of  this  extraordinary  city. 

The  very  cloaca  of  Tarquin  at  Rome  are  as  poetical  as 
Richmond  Hill;  many  will  think  more  so:  take  away 
Rome,  and  leave  the  Tiber  and  the  seven  hills,  in  the  na- 
ture of  Evander's  time.  Let  Mr.  Bowles,  or  Mr.  Words- 
worth, or  Mr.  Southey,  or  any  of  the  other  "naturals," 
make  a  poem  upon  them,  and  then  see  which  is  most 
poetical,  their  production,  or  the  commonest  guide-book, 
which  tells  you  the  road  from  St.  Peter's  to  the  Coliseum, 
and  informs  you  what  you  will  see  by  the  way.  The 
ground  interests  in  Virgil,  because  it  will  be  Rome,  and 
not  because  it  is  Evander's  rural  domain. 

'  See  The  Dunciad,  ii,  332. 


BYRON  261 

Mr.  Bowles  then  proceeds  to  press  Homer  into  his  serv- 
ice, in  answer  to  a  remark  of  Mr.  Campbell's,  that  "Homer 
was  a  great  describer  of  works  of  art."  Mr.  Bowles  con- 
tends that  all  his  great  power,  even  in  this,  depends  upon 
their  connection  with  nature.  The  "shield  of  Achilles  de- 
rives its  poetical  interest  from  the  subjects  described  on 
it."  And  from  what  does  the  spear  of  Achilles  derive  its 
interest?  and  the  helmet  and  the  mail  worn  by  Patroclus, 
and  the  celestial  armor,  and  the  very  brazen  greaves  of 
the  well-booted  Greeks?  Is  it  solely  from  the  legs,  and 
the  back,  and  the  breast,  and  the  human  body,  which  they 
enclose?  In  that  case  it  would  have  been  more  poetical 
to  have  made  them  fight  naked;  and  Gully  and  Gregson,* 
as  being  nearer  to  a  state  of  nature,  are  more  poetical 
boxing  in  a  pair  of  drawers  than  Hector  and  Achilles  in 
radiant  armor  and  with  heroic  weapons.  Instead  of  the 
clash  of  helmets,  and  the  rushing  of  chariots,  and  the 
whizzing  of  spears,  and  the  glancing  of  swords,  and  the 
cleaving  of  shields,  and  the  piercing  of  breast-plates,  why 
not  represent  the  Greeks  and  Trojans  like  two  savage 
tribes,  tugging  and  tearing,  and  kicking  and  biting,  and 
gnashing,  foaming,  grinning,  and  gouging,  in  all  the 
poetry  of  martial  nature,  unencumbered  with  gross,  pro- 
saic, artificial  arms;  an  equal  superfluity  to  the  natural 
warrior  and  his  natural  poet?  Is  there  anything  unpo- 
etical  in  Ulysses  striking  the  horses  of  Rhesus  with  his 
how  (having  forgotten  his  thong),  or  would  Mr.  Bowles 
have  had  him  kick  them  with  his  foot,  or  smack  them 
with  his  hand,  as  being  more  unsophisticated? 

In  Gray's  Elegy,  is  there  an  image  more  striking  than 
his  "shapeless  sculpture"  ? "  Of  sculpture  in  general,  it 
may  be  observed  that  it  is  more  poetical  than  nature  it- 
self, inasmuch  as  it  represents  and  bodies  forth  that  ideal 
beauty  and  sublimity  which  is  never  to  be  found  in  actual 
nature.  This,  at  least,  is  the  general  opinion.  But,  al- 
ways excepting  the  Venus  di  Medicis,  I  differ  from  that 
opinion,  at  least  as  far  as  regards  female  beauty;  for  the 
head  of  Lady  Charlemont  (when  I  first  saw  her  nine  years 
ago)  seemed  to  possess  all  that  sculpture  could  require 
for  its  ideal.     I  recollect  seeing  something  of  the  same 

•  Pugilists. 
•Line  79. 


262  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

kind  in  the  head  of  an  Albanian  girl,  who  was  actually 
employed  in  mending  a  road  in  the  mountains,  and  in 
some  Greek,  and  one  or  two  Italian,  faces.  But  of 
sublimity,  I  have  never  seen  anything  in  human  nature 
at  all  to  approach  the  expression  of  sculpture,  either  in 
the  Apollo,  the  Moses,  or  other  of  the  sterner  works  of 
ancient  or  modern  art. 

Let  us  examine  a  little  further  this  'Tjabble  of  green 
fields"  and  of  bare  nature  in  general  as  superior  to  arti- 
ficial imagery,  for  the  poetical  purposes  of  the  fine  arts. 
In  landscape  painting,  the  great  artist  does  not  give  you 
a  literal  copy  of  a  country,  but  he  invents  and  composes 
one.  Nature,  in  her  actual  aspect,  does  not  furnish  him 
with  such  existing  scenes  as  he  requires.  Even  where  he 
presents  you  with  some  famous  city,  or  celebrated  scene 
from  mountain  or  other  nature,  it  must  be  taken  from* 
some  particular  point  of  view,  and  with  such  light,  and 
shade,  and  distance,  etc.,  as  serve  not  only  to  heighten 
its  beauties,  but  to  shadow  its  deformities.  The  poetry 
of  nature  alone,  exactly  as  she  appears,  is  not  sufficient  to 
bear  him  out.  The  very  sky  of  his  painting  is  not  the 
portrait  of  the  sky  of  nature;  it  is  a  composition  of  dif- 
ferent skies,  observed  at  different  times,  and  not  the 
whole  copied  from  any  particular  day.  And  why?  Be- 
cause nature  is  not  lavish  of  her  beauties ;  they  are  widely 
scattered,  and  occasionally  displayed,  to  be  selected  with 
care,  and  gathered  with  difficulty. 

Of  sculpture  I  have  just  spoken.  It  is  the  great  scope 
of  the  sculptor  to  heighten  nature  into  heroic  beauty,  i.e., 
in  plain  English,  to  surpass  his  model.  When  Canova  ^° 
forms  a  statue,  he  takes  a  limb  from  one,  a  hand  from 
another,  a  feature  from  a  third,  and  a  shape,  it  may  be, 
from  a  fourth,  probably  at  the  same  time  improving  upon 
all,  as  the  Greek  did  of  old  in  embodying  his  Venus. 

Ask  a  portrait-painter  to  describe  his  agonies  in  ac- 

WAn  Italian  sculptor  (1757-1822).  This  belief  regarding  the 
method  of  artists  In  representing  Ideal  beauty  was  widespread ; 
compare  Goldsmith,  in  his  essay  on  "Cultivation  of  Taste"  :  "The 
sculptor  or  statuary  composed  the  various  proportions  in  nature 
from  a  great  number  of  different  subjects,  every  Individual  of 
which  he  found  imperfect  or  defective  in  some  one  particular, 
though  beautiful  In  all  the  rest ;  and  from  these  observations, 
corroborated  by  taste  and  Judgment,  he  formed  an  ideal  pat- 
tern." 


BYEON  263 

commodating  the  faces,  with  which,  nature  and  his  sit- 
ters have  crowded  his  painting  room,  to  the  principles  of 
his  art:  with  the  exception  of  perhaps  ten  faces  in  as 
many  millions,  there  is  not  one  which  he  can  venture  to 
give  without  shading  much  and  adding  more.  Nature, 
exactly,  simply,  barely  nature,  will  make  no  great  artist 
of  any  kind,  and  least  of  all  a  poet — the  most  artificial, 
perhaps,  of  all  artists  in  his  very  essence.  With  regard 
to  natural  imagery,  the  poets  are  obliged  to  take  some 
of  their  best  illustrations  from  art  You  say  that  a 
^'fountain  is  as  clear  or  clearer  than  glass"  to  express  its 
beauty : 

O   fons  Bandusiae,  splendidior  vitro!  " 

In  the  speech  of  Mark  Antony,  the  body  of  Caesar  is  dis- 
played, but  so  also  is  his  mantle: 

You  all  do  know  this  mantle,  etc.  .  .  . 

Look!  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through." 

If  the  poet  had  said  that  Cassius  had  run  his  fist  through 
the  rent  of  the  mantle,  it  would  have  had  more  of  Mr. 
Bowles's  "nature"  to  help  it;  but  the  artificial  dagger  is 
more  poetical  than  any  natural  hand  without  it.  In  the 
sublime  of  sacred  poetry,  "Who  is  this  that  cometh  from 
Edom  ?  with  dyed  garments  from  Bozrah  V  ^'  would  "the 
comer"  be  poetical  without  his  "dyed  garments"?  which 
strike  and  startle  the  spectator,  and  identify  the  approach- 
ing object. 

The  mother  of  Sisera  is  represented  listening  for  the 
**wheel8  of  his  chariot."  ^*  Solomon,  in  his  Songs,  com- 
pares the  nose  of  his  beloved  to  "a  tower,"  ^*  which  to  us 
appears  an  eastern  exaggeration.  If  he  had  said  that  her 
stature  was  like  that  of  a  "tower's,"  it  would  have  been 
as  poetical  as  if  he  had  compared  her  to  a  tree. 

The  virtuous  Maroia  towers  above  her  sex  •• 

"  Horace,  Ode»,  lil,  13.  1. 

^*Juliua  Cceaar,  III,   11,  174,  178. 

^'laaiah  63:1. 

^*  Judges  5:28. 

"  Song  of  Songt,  7  :4. 

••Addison,  Cato,  I,  Iv. 


264  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

is  an  instance  of  an  artificial  image  to  express  a  moral 
superiority.  But  Solomon,  it  is  probable,  did  not  com- 
pare his  beloved's  nose  to  a  "tower"  on  account  of  its 
length,  but  of  its  symmetry;  and  making  allowance  for 
eastern  hyperbole,  and  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  discreet 
image  for  a  female  nose  in  nature,  it  is  perhaps  as  good 
a  figure  as  any  other. 

Art  is  not  inferior  to  nature  for  poetical  purposes. 
What  makes  a  regiment  of  soldiers  a  more  noble  object 
of  view  than  the  same  mass  of  mob?  Their  arms,  their 
dresses,  their  banners,  and  the  art  and  artificial  symmetry 
of  their  position  and  movements.  A  Highlander's  plaid, 
a  Mussulman's  turban,  and  a  Roman  toga,  are  more  po- 
etical than  the  tattooed  or  untattooed  buttocks  of  a  New 
Sandwich  savage,  although  they  were  described  by  William 
Wordsworth  himself  like  the  "idiot  in  his  glory."  " 

I  have  seen  as  many  mountains  as  most  men,  and  more 
fleets  than  the  generality  of  landsmen;  and  to  my  mind 
a  large  convoy,  with  a  few  sail  of  the  line  to  conduct 
them,  is  as  noble  and  as  poetical  a  prospect  as  all  that 
inanimate  nature  can  produce.  I  prefer  the  "mast  of 
some  great  admiral,"  with  all  its  tackle,  to  the  Scotch 
fir  or  the  alpine  tannen,  and  think  that  more  poetry  has 
been  made  out  of  it.  In  what  does  the  infinite  superior- 
ity of  Falconer's  Shipwreck  over  all  other  shipwrecks  con- 
sist? In  his  admirable  application  of  the  terms  of  his 
art;  in  a  poet-sailor's  description  of  the  sailor's  fate. 
These  very  terms,  by  his  application,  make  the  strength 
and  reality  of  his  poem.  Why  ?  Because  he  was  a  poet ; 
and,  in  the  hands  of  a  poet,  art  will  not  be  found  less 
ornamental  than  nature.  It  is  precisely  in  general  na- 
ture, and  in  stepping  out  of  his  element,  that  Falconer 
fails;  where  he  digresses  to  speak  of  ancient  Greece,  and 
"such  branches  of  learning." 

In  Dyer's  Grongar  Hill,^'  upon  which  his  fame  rests, 
the  very  appearance  of  nature  herself  is  moralized  into 
an  artificial  image: 

Thus   is   nature's   vesture   wrought, 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought; 

"  At  the  close  of  Wordsworth's  poem   "The   Idiot   Boy"   is   the 
line,  "Thus  answered  .Tohnny  in  his  glory." 
"By  John  Dyer.  1727. 


BYEON  265 

Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay, 
To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

And  here  also  we  have  the  telescope ;  the  misuse  of  which, 
by  Milton,^*  has  rendered  Mr.  Bowles  so  triumphant  over 
Mr.  Campbell: 

So  we  mistake  the  future's  face, 
Eyed  through  Hope's  deluding  glass. 

And  here  a  word,  en  passant,  to  Mr.  Campbell : 

As  yon  summits,  soft  and  fair. 
Clad  in  colours  of  the  air, 
Which  to  those  who  journey  near 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear, 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way — 
The  present  's  still  a  cloudy  day. 

Is  not  this  the  original  of  the  Tar-famed — 

'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view. 
And  robes  the  mountain   in   its  azure  hue?* 

To  return,  once  more,  to  the  sea.  Let  any  one  look 
on  the  long  wall  of  Malamocco,  which  curbs  the  Adriatic, 
and  pronounce  between  the  sea  and  its  master.  Surely 
that  Roman  work  (I  mean  Roman  in  conception  and  per- 
formance) which  says  to  the  ocean,  "Thus  far  shalt  thou 
come,  and  no  further,"  and  is  obeyed,  is  not  less  sublime 
and  poetical  than  the  angry  waves  which  vainly  break 
beneath  it. 

Mr.  Bowles  makes  the  chief  part  of  a  ship's  poesy  de- 
pend upon  the  "wind":  then  why  is  a  ship  under  sail 
more  poetical  than  a  hog  in  a  high  wind  ?  The  hog  is  all 
nature,  the  ship  is  all  art,  "coarse  canvas,"  "blue  bunt- 
ing," and  "tall  poles";  both  are  violently  acted  upon  by 
the  wind,  tossed  here  and  there,  to  and  fro :  and  yet  noth- 

"  See  Parasite  Lost,  i.  287-91  : 

Like  the  moon,  whose  orb 

ThrouRh    optic    glass    the    Tuscan    artist    views 

At  evening,  from  the  top  of  Fesole, 

Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new   lands, 

Rivers,  or  mountains,  in  her  spotty  globe. 
">From   Campbell's   The  Pleasures   of  Hope,  1,   7. 


266  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

ing  but  excess  of  hunger  could  make  me  look  upon  the 
pig  as  the  more  poetical  of  the  two,  and  then  only  in 
the  shape  of  a  griskin. 

Will  Mr.  Bowles  tell  us  that  the  poetry  of  an  aqueduct 
consists  in  the  water  which  it  conveys  ?  Let  him  look  on 
that  of  Justinian,  on  those  of  Rome,  Constantinople,  Lis- 
bon, and  Elvas,  or  even  at  the  remains  of  that  in  Attica. 

We  are  asked,  "What  makes  the  venerable  towers  of 
Westminster  Abbey  more  poetical,  as  objects,  than  the 
tower  for  the  manufactory  of  patent  shot,  surrounded  by 
the  same  scenery?"  I  will  answer — the  architecture. 
Turn  Westminster  Abbey,  or  Saint  Paul's,  into  a  powder- 
magazine, — their  poetry,  as  objects,  remains  the  same; 
the  Parthenon  was  actually  converted  into  one  by  the 
Turks,  during  Morosini's  Venetian  siege,  and  part  of  it 
destroyed  in  consequence.  Cromwell's  dragoons  stalled 
their  steeds  in  Worcester  cathedral;  was  it  less  poetical 
as  an  object  than  before?  Ask  a  foreigner,  on  his  ap- 
proach to  London,  what  strikes  him  as  the  most  poetical 
of  the  towers  before  him:  he  will  point  out  Saint  Paul's 
and  Westminster  Abbey,  without,  perhaps,  knowing  the 
names  or  associations  of  either,  and  pass  over  the  "tower 
for  patent  shot," — not  that,  for  anything  he  knows  to 
the  contrary,  it  might  not  be  the  mausoleum  of  a  mon- 
arch, or  a  Waterloo  column,  or  a  Trafalgar  monument, 
but  because  its  architecture  is  obviously  inferior. 

To  the  question,  "Whether  the  description  of  a  game 
of  cards  be  as  poetical,  supposing  the  execution  of  the 
artists  equal,  as  a  description  of  a  walk  in  a  forest?"  it 
may  be  answered  that  the  materials  are  certainly  not 
equal,  but  that  "the  artist"  who  has  rendered  the  "game 
of  cards  poetical"  is  by  far  the  greater  of  the  two.  But 
all  this  "ordering"  of  poets  is  purely  arbitrary  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Bowles.  There  may  or  may  not  be,  in  fact, 
different  "orders"  of  poetry,  but  the  poet  is  always  ranked 
according  to  his  execution,  and  not  according  to  his 
branch  of  the  art. 

Tragedy  is  one  of  the  highest  presumed  orders. 
Hughes  has  written  a  tragedy,  and  a  very  successful  one; 
Fenton  another,^^  and  Pope  none.  Did  any  man,  however, 

"  Hugbes  wrote  The  Siege  of  Damatcut,  1720  :  Fenton  Mariamne. 
1723. 


BYEON  m 

— ^will  even  Mr.  Bowles  himself, — rank  Hughes  and  Fen- 
ton  as  poets  above  Pope?  Was  even  Addison  (the  author 
of  Cato),  or  Rowe  (one  of  the  higher  order  of  dramatists, 
as  far  as  success  goes),  or  Young,  or  even  Otway  and 
Southerne,  ever  raised  for  a  moment  to  the  same  rank 
with  Pope  in  the  estimation  of  the  reader  or  the  critic, 
before  his  death  or  since?  If  Mr.  Bowles  will  contend 
for  classifications  of  this  kind,  let  him  recollect  that 
descriptive  poetry  has  been  ranked  as  among  the  lowest 
branches  of  the  art,  and  description  as  a  mere  ornament, 
but  which  should  never  form  the  "subject"  of  a  poem. 
The  Italians,  with  the  most  poetical  language  and  the 
most  fastidious  taste  in  Europe,  possess  now  five  great 
poets,  they  say, — Dante,  Petrarch,  Ariosto,  Tasso,  and 
lastly  Alfieri ;  22  and  whom  do  they  esteem  one  of  the 
highest  of  these,  and  some  of  them  the  very  highest? 
Petrarch  the  sonneteer.  It  is  true  that  some  of  his 
canzoni  are  not  less  esteemed,  but  not  more;  who  ever 
dreams  of  his  Latin  Africa? 

Were  Petrarch  to  be  ranked  according  to  the  "order" 

"  Of  these  there  is  one  ranked  with  the  others  for  his  Sonnets, 
and  two  fur  compositions  which  belong  to  no  class  at  all.  Where 
is  Dante?  His  poem  is  not  an  epic;  then  what  is  it?  He  himself 
calls  it  a  "divine  comedy";  and  why?  This  is  more  than  all  hip 
thousand  commentators  have  been  able  to  explain.  Ariosto's  ia 
not  an  epic  poem ;  and  if  poets  are  to  be  classed  according  to  the 
genua  of  their  poetry,  where  Is  he  to  be  placed?  Of  these  five, 
Tasso  and  Altierl  only  come  within  Aristotle  s  arrangement  and  Mr. 
Bowles's  class-booli.  But  the  whole  position  is  false.  Poets  are 
classed  by  the  power  of  their  performance,  and  not  according  to  Its 
rank  In  a  gradus.  In  the  contrary  case,  the  forgotten  epic  poets 
of  all  countries  would  rank  above  Petrarch,  Dante,  Ariosto,  Burns, 
Gray,  Dryden,  and  the  highest  names  of  various  countries.  Mr. 
Bowie's  title  of  "invariable  principles  of  poetry"  Is,  perhaps,  the 
most  arrogant  ever  prettxcd  to  a  volume.  So  far  are  the  principles 
of  poetry  from  being  "Invariable,"  that  they  never  were  nor  ever 
w411  be  settled.  These  "principles"  mean  nothing  more  than  the 
predilections  of  a  particular  age ;  and  every  age  has  its  own,  and 
a  different  from  Its  predecessor.  It  Is  now  Ilomer,  and  now  Virgil ; 
once  Dryden,  and  since  Walter  Scott :  now  CorneiUe,  and  now 
Racine ;  now  Cr^blllon,  now  Voltaire.  The  Ilomerlsts  and  Vlrgll- 
lans  In  France  disputed  for  half  a  century.  Not  fifty  years  ago  the 
Italians  neglected  Dante — Bcttinelli  reproved  Monti  for  reading 
"that  barbarian" ;  at  present  they  adore  him.  Shakespeare  and 
Milton  have  had  their  riso,  and  they  will  have  their  decline.  Al- 
ready they  have  more  than  once  fluctuated,  as  must  be  the  case  with 
all  the  dramatists  and  poets  of  a  living  language.  This  does  not 
depend  upon  their  merits,  but  upon  the  ordinary  vicissitudes  of 
human  opinions.  Schlegel  and  Madame  de  Stael  have  endeavored 
also  to  reduce  poetry  to  two  systems,  classical  and  romantic.  The 
effect  is  only  beginning.     [Byron's  note.] 


268  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

of  his  compositions,  where  would  the  best  of  sonnets  place 
him?  With  Dante  and  the  others?  No;  but,  as  I  have 
before  said,  the  poet  who  executes  best  is  the  highest, 
whatever  his  department,  and  will  ever  be  so  rated  in 
the  world's  esteem. 

Had  Gray  written  nothing  but  his  Elegy,  high  as  he 
stands,  I  am  not  sure  that  he  would  not  stand  higher; 
it  is  the  corner-stone  of  his  glory:  without  it  his  odes 
would  be  insufficient  for  his  fame.  The  depreciation  of 
Pope  is  partly  founded  upon  a  false  idea  of  the  dignity 
of  his  order  of  poetry,  to  which  he  has  partly  contributed 
by  the  ingenuous  boast: 

That  not  in  fancy's  maze  he  wander'd  long, 
But  atoop'd  to  truth,  and  moraliz'd  his  song." 

He  should  have  written  "rose  to  truth."  In  my  mind,  the 
highest  of  all  poetry  is  ethical  poetry,  as  the  highest  of 
all  earthly  objects  must  be  moral  truth.  Religion  does 
not  make  a  part  of  my  subject;  it  is  something  beyond 
human  powers,  and  has  failed  in  all  human  hands,  except 
Milton's  and  Dante's:  and  even  Dante's  powers  are  in- 
volved in  his  delineation  of  human  passions,  though  in 
supernatural  circumstances.  What  made  Socrates  the 
greatest  of  men?  His  moral  truth — his  ethics.  What 
proved  Jesus  Christ  the  Son  of  God  hardly  less  than  his 
miracles?  His  moral  precepts.  And  if  ethics  have  made 
a  philosopher  the  first  of  men,  and  have  not  been  dis- 
dained as  an  adjunct  to  his  Gospel  by  the  Deity  him- 
self, are  we  to  be  told  that  ethical  poetry,  or  didactic 
poetry,  or  by  whatever  name  you  term  it,  whose  object 
is  to  make  men  better  and  wiser,  is  not  the  very  first 
order  of  poetry?  and  are  we  to  be  told  this,  too,  by  one  of 
the  priesthood?  It  requires  more  mind,  more  wisdom, 
more  power,  than  all  the  "forests"  that  ever  were 
"walked"  for  their  "description,"  and  all  the  epics  that 
ever  were  founded  upon  fields  of  battle.  The  Georgics 
are  indisputably,  and  I  believe  undisputedly,  even  a  finer 
poem  than  the  Mneid.  Virgil  knew  this;  he  did  not 
order  them  to  be  bumt.^* 

»»  "Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,"  lines  340-41. 

"Virgil  was  said  to  have  expressed  a  wish,  during  his  last  ill- 
ness, that  the  JKneid  should  be  destroyed,  since  he  had  not  been 
able  to  perfect  its  worlctnansbip. 


BYEON  S6» 

The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man.* 

It  is  the  fashion  of  the  day  to  lay  great  stress  upon 
■what  they  call  "imagination"  and  "invention,"  the  two 
commonest  of  qualities:  an  Irish  peasant  with  a  little 
"whiskey  in  his  head  will  imagine  and  invent  more  than 
would  furnish  forth  a  modern  poem.  If  Lucretius  had 
not  been  spoiled  by  the  Epicurean  system,  we  should  have 
had  a  far  superior  poem  to  any  now  in  existence.  As 
mere  poetry,  it  is  the  first  of  Latin  poems.  What  then 
has  ruined  it?  His  ethics.  Pope  has  not  this  defect; 
his  moral  is  as  pure  as  his  poetry  is  glorious.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Bowles  compares,  when  and  where  he  can.  Pope 
with  Cowper  (the  same  Cowper  whom  in  his  edition  of 
Pope  he  laughs  at  for  his  attachment  to  an  old  woman, 
Mrs.  Unwin ;  search  and  you  will  find  it ;  I  remember  the 
passage,  though  not  the  page) ;  in  particular  he  requotes 
Cowper's  Dutch  delineation  of  a  wood,  drawn  up,  like 
a  seedman's   catalogue,^^  with   an   affected   imitation  of 

"  Pope,  Enaay  on  Man,  il,  2. 

"  I  will  submit  to  Mr.  Bowles's  own  Judgment  a  passage  from 
another  poem  of  Cowper's,  to  be  compared  with  the  same  writer's 
"Sylvan    Sampler."     In    the    lines   "To    Mary" — 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store. 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more, 
My  Mary, 
contain  a  simple,  household,  "indoor,"  artificial,  and  ordinary 
image.  I  refer  Mr.  Bowles  to  the  stanza,  and  ask  if  these  three 
lines  about  "needles"  are  not  worth  all  the  l)oa8ted  twaddling  about 
trees,  so  triumphantly  requoted?  And  yet,  in  fact,  what  do  they 
convey?  A  homely  collection  of  images  and  ideas,  associated  with 
the  darning  of  stockings,  and  the  hemming  of  shirts,  and  the 
mending  of  breeches ;  but  will  any  one  deny  that  they  are  eminently 
poetical  and  pathetic,  as  addressed  by  Cowper  to  his  nurse?  The 
trash  of  trees  reminds  me  of  a  saying  of  Sheridan's.  Soon  after 
the  Rejectid  Address  scene  in  1812.  I  met  Sheridan.  In  the  course 
of  dinner  he  said,  "Lord  Byron,  did  you  know  that  amongst  the 
writers  of  addresses  was  Whitbread  himself?"  I  answered  by  an 
inquiry  of  what  sort  of  an  address  he  had  made.  "Of  that.  '  re- 
plied Sheridan.  "I  remember  little,  except  that  there  was  a  phoenix 
in  It."  "A  phoenix!  Well,  how  did  he  describe  it?"  "Like  a 
poulterer,"  answered  Sheridan  :  "It  was  green,  and  yellow,  and  red, 
and  blue :  he  did  not  let  us  oflT  for  a  single  feather."  And  Just 
such  as  this  poulterer's  account  of  a  phcBnix  Is  Cowper's  stick- 
picker's  detail  of  a  wood,  with  all  its  petty  minutiae  of  this,  that, 
and  the  other. 

One  more  poetical  instance  of  the  power  of  art,  and  even  Its 
superiority  over  nature,  in  poetry,  and  I  have  done : — the  bust  of 
Antinous  !  Is  there  anything  in  nature  like  this  marble,  excepting 
the  Venus?  Can  there  be  more  poetry  gathered  Into  existence 
than    In    that    wonderful    creation    of    perfect    beauty?      But    the 


270  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Milton's  style,  as  burlesque  as  The  Splendid  Shilling." 
These  two  writers — for  Cowper  is  no  poet — come  into  com- 
parison in  one  great  work,  the  translation  of  Homer. 
Now,  with  all  the  great,  and  manifest,  and  manifold,  and 
reproved,  and  acknowledged,  and  uncontroverted  faults 
of  Pope's  translation,  and  all  the  scholarship,  and  pains, 
and  time,  and  trouble,  and  blank  verse  of  the  other,  who 
can  ever  read  Cowper?  And  who  will  ever  lay  down 
Pope,  unless  for  the  original?  Pope's  was  "not  Homer, 
it  was  Spondanus" ;  ^s  but  Cowper's  is  not  Homer  either, 
it  is  not  even  Cowper.  As  a  child  I  first  read  Pope's 
Homer  with  a  rapture  which  no  subsequent  work  could 
ever  afford,  and  children  are  not  the  worst  judges  of 
their  own  language.  As  a  boy  I  read  Homer  in  the 
original,  as  we  have  all  done,  some  of  us  by  force,  and 
a  few  by  favor;  under  which  description  I  come  is  nothing 
to  the  purpose, — it  is  enough  that  I  read  him.  As  a  man 
I  have  tried  to  read  Cowper's  version,  and  I  found  it 
impossible.  Has  any  human  reader  ever  succeeded?  .  .  . 
The  attempt  of  the  poetical  populace  of  the  present 
day  to  obtain  an  ostracism  against  Pope  is  as  easily 
accounted  for  as  the  Athenian's  shell  against  Aristides: 
they  are  tired  of  hearing  him  always  called  the  "Just." 
They  are  also  fighting  for  life;  for,  if  he  maintains  his 
station,  they  will  reach  their  own  by  falling.  They  have 
raised  a  mosque  by  the  side  of  a  Grecian  temple  of  the 
purest  architecture;  and,  more  barbarous  than  the  bar- 
barians from  whose  practice  I  have  borrowed  the  figure, 
they  are  not  contented  with  their  own  grotesque  edifice, 
unless  they  destroy  the  prior  and  purely  beautiful  fabric 

poetry  of  this  bust  is  in  no  respect  derived  from  nature,  nor  from 
any  association  of  moral  exaltedness ;  for  what  is  there  in  common 
with  moral  nature  and  the  male  minion  of  Adrian?  The  very 
execution  is  not  natural,  but  «ttper-natural,  or  rather  auper- 
artiflcial,  for  nature  has  never  done  so  much. 

Away,  then,  with  this  cant  about  nature,  and  "invariable  prin- 
ciples of  poetry"  !  A  great  artisi  will  mal£e  a  blocic  of  stone  as 
sublime  as  a  mountain,  and  a  good  poet  can  imbue  a  pack  of 
cards  with  more  poetry  than  inhabits  the  forests  of  America.  It 
Is  the  busines-s  and  the  proof  of  a  poet  to  give  the  lie  to  the  prov- 
erb, and  sometimes  to  "maite  a  silken  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear" ; 
and,  to  conclude  with  another  homely  proverb,  "a  good  workman 
will  not  find  fault  with  his  tools."     [Byron's  note.] 

"  A  poem  burlesquing  the  style  of  Milton,  by  John  Philips,  1705. 

'» .\n  Homeric  commentator  of  the  16th  century  (Jean  de 
Spondd). 


BYRON  271 

■which  preceded,  and  which  shames  them  and  theirs  for 
ever  and  ever.  I  shall  be  told  that  amongst  those  I  have 
been  (or  it  may  be,  still  am)  conspicuous; — true,  and  I 
am  ashamed  of  it.  I  have  been  amongst  the  builders  of 
this  Babel,  attended  by  a  confusion  of  tongues,  but  never 
amongst  the  envious  destroyers  of  the  classic  temple  of 
our  predecessor.  I  have  loved  and  honored  the  fame  and 
name  of  that  illustrious  and  unrivalled  man,  far  more 
than  my  own  paltry  renown,  and  the  trashy  jingle  of  the 
crowd  of  "schools"  and  upstarts  who  pretend  to  rival  or 
even  surpass  him.  Sooner  than  a  single  leaf  should  be 
torn  from  his  laurel,  it  were  better  that  all  which  these 
men,  and  that  I,  as  one  of  their  set,  have  ever  written, 
should 

Line  trunks,  clothe  spice,  or,  fluttering  in  a  row, 
Befringe  the  rails  of  Bedlam,  or  Soho!  " 

There  are  those  who  will  believe  this,  and  those  who 
will  not.  You,  sir,  know  how  far  I  am  sincere,  and 
whether  my  opinion,  not  only  in  the  short  work  intended 
for  publication,  and  in  private  letters  which  can  never 
be  published,  has  or  has  not  been  the  same.  I  look 
upon  this  as  the  declining  age  of  English  poetry;^"  no 
regard  for  others,  no  selfish  feeling,  can  prevent  me  from 
seeing  this,  and  expressing  the  truth.  There  can  be  no 
worse  sign  for  the  taste  of  the  times  than  the  deprecia- 
tion of  Pope.  It  would  be  better  to  receive  for  proof  Mr. 
Cobbett's  rough  but  strong  attack  upon  Shakespeare  and 
Milton,*^  than  to  allow  this  smooth  and  "candid"  under- 

•»  Pope,   "Epistle   to   Aupustus,"   lines  418-19. 

*•  There  are  many  parallels  to  this  In  Byron's  critical  obserra- 
tlons.  In  his  Diary  for  1817  he  had  written  :  "With  regard  to 
poetry  In  general,  I  am  ccnvlnctd  that  we  are  all  upon  a  wrong 
revolutionary  poetical  system,  not  worth  a  damn  In  Itself,  and 
from  which  none  but  UoRers  and  Crabbe  are  free.  I  am  the  more 
confirmed  in  this  by  having  latt-ly  gone  over  some  of  our  classics, 
particularly    Pope,    whom    1    tried    in    this    way : — I    took    Moore's 

goems,  and  my  own,  and  some  others,  and  wont  over  them  side 
y  side  with  Pope's,  and  I  was  really  astonished  and  mortified 
at  the  Ineffable  distance.  In  point  of  sense,  learning,  effect,  and 
even  Imagination,  passion,  and  Invention,  between  the  little  Queen 
Anne's  man   and   us  of  the  Lower  Empire." 

"William  Cobbett  (1762-1835)  was  a  radical  writer  who  fre- 
quently attacked  the  traditional  belief  in  the  excellence  of  lit- 
erary classics,  Shakespeare  in  particular.  For  a  representative 
passage,  see  his  Advice  to  Young  Mm,  which,  however,  was  not 
yet  published  when  Byron  wrote  the  present  letter. 


272  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

mining  of  the  reputation  of  the  most  perfect  of  our  poets 
and  the  purest  of  our  moralists.  On  his  power  in  the 
passions,  in  description,  in  the  mock-heroic,  I  leave  others 
to  descant.  I  take  him  on  his  strong  ground,  as  an 
ethical  poet :  in  the  former  none  excel,  in  the  mock-heroic 
and  the  ethical  none  equal,  him ;  and  in  my  mind,  the 
latter  is  the  highest  of  all  poetry,  because  it  does  that, 
in  verse,  which  the  greatest  of  men  have  wished  to  ac- 
complish in  prose.  If  the  essence  of  poetry  must  be  a 
lie,  throw  it  to  the  dogs,  or  banish  it  from  your  republic, 
as  Plato  would  have  done.^^  jjg  -y^^Q  g^n  reconcile  poetry 
with  truth  and  wisdom  is  the  only  true  "poet"  in  its 
real  sense,  "the  maker,"  "the  creator," — why  must  this 
mean  the  *1iar,"  the  "feigner,"  the  "tale-teller"  ?  A  man 
may  make  and  create  better  things  than  these. 

I  shall  not  presume  to  say  that  Pope  is  as  high  a  poet 
as  Shakespeare  and  Milton, — though  his  enemy,  Warton,^^ 
places  him  immediately  under  them.^*  I  would  no  more 
say  this  than  I  would  assert  in  the  mosque  (once  Saint 
Sophia's)  that  Socrates  was  a  greater  man  than  Mahomet. 
But  if  I  say  that  he  is  very  near  them,  it  is  no  more 
than  has  been  asserted  of  Burns,  who  is  supposed 

To  rival  all  but  Shakespeare's  name  below. 

I  say  nothing  against  this  opinion.  But  of  what  "order," 
according  to  the  poetical  aristocracy,  are  Burns's  poems? 
There  are  his  opus  magnum.  Tarn  O'Shanter,  a  tale;  the 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  a  descriptive  sketch ;  some  others 
in  the  same  style:  the  rest  are  songs.  So  much  for  the 
rank  of  his  productions;  the  rank  of  Burns  is  the  very 
first  of  his  art.  Of  Pope  I  have  expressed  my  opinion 
elsewhere,  as  also  of  the  effect  which  the  present  attempts 

"  See  p.  223.  and  note. 

»*  Byron  calls  Joseph  Warton  Pope's  enemy,  because  in  his  Etsay 
on  the  Oeniua  and  Writings  of  Pope  (1756,  1782)  Warton  had 
arf^ued  that  Pope  did  not  excel  in  the  highest  type  of  poetry,  of 
which   "the  sublime  and   the   pathetic  are  the   two   chief   nerves." 

**  If  the  opinions  cited  by  Mr.  Bowles,  of  Dr.  Johnson  against 
Pope,  are  to  be  taken  as  decisive  authority,  they  will  also  hold 
good  against  Gray,  Milton,  Swift,  Thomson,  and  Dryden  :  in  that 
case  what  becomes  of  Gray's  poetical  and  Milton's  moral  char- 
acter? even  of  Milton's  poetical  character,  or,  indeed,  of  English 
poetry  in  general?  for  Johnson  strips  many  a  leaf  from  every 
laurel.  Still  Johnson's  is  the  finest  critical  work  extant,  and  can 
never  be  read  without  Instruction   and   delight.      [Byron's  note.] 


BYRON  278 

at  poetry  have  had  upon  our  literature.  If  any  great 
national  or  natural  convulsion  could  or  should  overwhelm 
your  country,  in  such  sort  as  to  sweep  Great  Britain 
from  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth,  and  leave  only  that, 
after  all,  the  most  living  of  human  things,  a  dead  lan- 
guage, to  be  studied  and  read,  and  imitated  by  the  wise 
of  future  and  far  generations,  upon  foreign  shores;  if 
your  literature  should  become  the  learning  of  mankind, 
divested  of  party  cabals,  temporary  fashions,  and  national 
pride  and  prejudice;  an  Englishman,  anxious  that  the 
posterity  of  strangers  should  know  that  there  had  been 
such  a  thing  as  a  British  epic  and  tragedy,  might  wish 
for  the  preservation  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton;  but  the 
surviving  world  would  snatch  Pope  from  the  wreck,  and 
let  the  rest  sink  with  the  people.  He  is  the  moral  poet 
of  all  civilization;  and  as  such,  let  us  hope  that  he  will 
one  day  be  the  national  poet  of  mankind.  He  is  the 
only  poet  that  never  shocks;  the  only  poet  whose  fault- 
lessness  has  been  made  his  reproach.  Cast^  your  eye  over 
his  productions;  consider  their  extent,  and  contemplate 
their  variety : — ^pastoral,  passion,  mock-heroic,  translation, 
satire,  ethics, — all  excellent,  and  often  perfect.  If  his 
great  charm  be  his  melody,  how  comes  it  that  foreigners 
adore  him,  even  in  their  diluted  translations?  But  I 
have  made  this  letter  too  long. — Give  my  compliments  to 
Mr.  Bowles. 

Yours  ever,  very  truly, 

Byron. 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

[In  1820  Shelley's  friend  Thomas  Love  Peacock  published 
in  Ollier's  Literary  Miscellany  a  paradoxical  essay  called  "The 
Four  Ages  of  Poetry."  He  sent  a  copy  of  it  to  the  poet,  who 
took  it  perhaps  rather  more  seriously  than  the  author  in- 
tended, and  in  March,  1821,  wrote  to  Peacock:  "I  dispatch 
by  this  post  the  first  part  of  an  essay  intended  to  consist 
of  three  parts,  which  I  design  as  an  antidote  to  your  'Four 
Ages  of  Poetry.'  You  will  see  that  I  have  taken  a  more 
general  view  of  what  is  poetry  than  you  have,  and  will  per- 


274  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

haps  agree  with  several  of  my  positions,  without  considering 
your  own  touched."  The  "Defence,"  of  which  the  other  two 
parts  were  never  written,  was  prepared  for  publication  in 
The  Liberal  by  John  Hunt,  who  omitted  the  passages  speci- 
fically referring  to  Peacock's  essay,  leaving  Shelley's  discussion 
a  general  one,  analogous  to  Sidney's  "Apology  for  Poetry" 
and  other  great  introductions  to  the  subject.  But  Hunt  did 
not  bring  the  essay  to  publication,  and  it  first  appeared  in 
the  collection  of  Shelley's  prose  writings  brought  out  by  Mrs. 
Shelley  in  1840.  The  following  paragraphs  from  Peacock's 
"Four  Ages"  exhibit  the  main  contentions  which  aroused 
Shelley  to  reply; 

"In  the  origin  and  perfection  of  poetry,  all  the  associations 
of  life  were  composed  of  poetical  materials.  With  us  it  is 
decidedly  the  reverse.  We  know,  too,  that  there  are  no 
Dryads  in  Hyde  Park,  nor  Naiads  in  the  Regent's  Canal.  But 
barbaric  manners  and  supernatural  interventions  are  essential 
to  poetry.  Either  in  the  scene,  or  in  the  time,  or  in  both,  it 
must  be  remote  from  our  ordinary  perceptions.  While  the 
historian  and  the  philosopher  are  advancing  in,  and  acceler- 
ating, the  progress  of  knowledge,  the  poet  is  wallowing  in  the 
rubbish  of  departed  ignorance,  and  raking  up  the  ashes  of 
dead  savages  to  find  gewgaws  and  rattles  for  the  grown  babies 
of  the  age.  Mr.  Scott  digs  up  the  poachers  and  cattle- 
stealers  of  the  ancient  border.  Lord  Byron  cruises  for  thieves 
and  pirates  on  the  shores  of  the  Morea  and  among  the  Greek 
islands.  Mr,  Southey  wades  through  ponderous  volumes  of 
travels  and  old  chronicles,  from  which  he  carefully  selects  all 
that  is  false,  useless,  and  absurd,  as  being  essentially  poetical; 
and  when  he  has  a  commonplace  book  full  of  monstrosities, 
strings  them  into  an  epic.  Mr.  Wordsworth  picks  up  village 
legends  from  old  women  and  sextons;  and  Mr.  Coleridge,  to 
the  valuable  information  acquired  from  similar  sources,  super- 
adds the  dreams  of  crazy  theologians  and  the  mysticisms  of 
German  metaphysics,  and  favors  the  world  with  visions  in 
verse,  in  which  the  quadruple  elements  of  sexton,  old  woman, 
Jeremy  Taylor,  and  Immanuel  Kant  are  harmonized  into  a 
delicious  poetical  compound.  Mr.  Moore  presents  ua  with  a 
Persian,  and  Mr.  Campbell  with  a  Pennsylvanian  tale,*  both 
formed  on  the  same  principle  as  Mr.  Southey's  epics,  by 
extracting  from  a  perfunctory  and  Sesultory  perusal  of  a 
collection  of  voyages  and  travels,  all  that  useful  investigation 
would  not  seek  for  and  that  common  sense  would  reject.  .  .  . 

'  Moore'B  Lalla  Rookh,  1817 ;  Campbell's  Oertrude  of  Wyoming, 


PEACOCK  375 

"A  poet  in  our  times  is  a  semi-barbarian  in  a  civilized  com- 
munity. He  lives  in  the  days  that  are  past.  His  ideas, 
thoughts,  feelings,  associations,  are  all  with  barbarous  man- 
ners, obsolete  customs,  and  exploded  superstitions.  The  march 
of  his  intellect  is  like  that  of  a  crab,  backward.  The  brighter 
the  light  diffused  around  him  by  the  progress  of  reason,  the 
thicker  is  the  darkness  of  antiquated  barbarism  in  which 
he  buries  himself  like  a  mole,  to  throw  up  the  barren  hillocks 
of  his  Cimmerian  labors.  The  philosophic  mental  tranquillity 
which  looks  round  with  an  equal  eye  on  all  external  things, 
collects  a  store  of  ideas,  discriminates  their  relative  value, 
assigns  to  all  their  proper  place,  and  from  the  materials 
of  useful  knowledge  thus  collected,  appreciated,  and  arranged, 
forms  new  combinations  that  impress  the  stamp  of  their 
power  and  utility  on  the  real  business  of  life,  is  diametrically 
the  reverse  of  that  frame  of  mind  which  poetry  inspires,  or 
from  which  poetry  can  emanate.  The  highest  inspirations  of 
poetry  are  resolvable  into  three  ingredients:  the  rant  of  un- 
regulated passion,  the  whining  of  exaggerated  feeling,  and  the 
cant  of  factitious  sentiment;  and  can  therefore  serve  only  to 
ripen  a  splendid  lunatic  like  Alexander,  a  puling  driveler  like 
Werter,*  or  a  morbid  dreamer  like  Wordsworth.  It  can  never 
make  a  philosopher,  nor  a  statesman,  nor  in  any  class  of  life 
a  useful  or  rational  man.  It  cannot  claim  the  slightest  share 
in  any  one  of  the  comforts  and  utilities  of  life,  of  which  we 
have  witnessed  so  many  and  so  rapid  advances.  But  though 
not  useful,  it  may  be  said  it  is  highly  ornamental,  and  de- 
serves to  be  cultivated  for  the  pleasure  it  yields.  Even  if 
this  be  granted,  it  does  not  follow  that  a  writer  of  poetry 
in  the  present  state  of  society  is  not  a  waster  of  his  own 
time,  and  a  robber  of  that  of  others.  Poetry  is  not  one  of 
those  arts  which,  like  painting,  require  repetition  and  multi- 
plication, in  order  to  be  diffused  among  society.  There  are 
more  good  poems  already  existing  than  are  sufficient  to  em- 
ploy that  portion  of  life  which  any  mere  reader  and  recipient 
of  poetical  impressions  should  devote  to  them,  and  these, 
having  been  produced  in  poetical  times,  are  far  superior  in 
all  the  characteristics  of  poetry  to  the  artificial  reconstruc- 
tions of  a  few  morbid  ascetics  in  unpoetical  times.  To 
read  the  promiscuous  rubbish  of  the  present  time,  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  the  select  treasures  of  the  past,  is  to  substitute 
the  worse  for  the  better  variety  of  the  same  mode  of  enjoy- 
ment. 

"But  in  whatever  degree  poetry  is  cultivated,  it  must  neces- 
sarily be  to  the  neglect  of  some  branch  of  useful  study;  and 
it  is  a   lamentable  spectacle   to  see   minds   capable  of  better 

*  In  Goethe's  Sorrows  of  Werter. 


276  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

things  running  to  seed  in  the  specious  indolence  of  these 
empty,  aimless  mockeries  of  intellectual  exertion.  Poetry  was 
the  mental  rattle  that  awakened  the  attention  of  intellect 
in  the  infancy  of  civil  society;  but  for  the  maturity  of  mind 
to  make  a  serious  business  of  the  playthings  of  its  childhood, 
is  as  absurd  as  for  a  full-grown  man  to  rub  his  gums  with 
coral,  and  cry  to  be  charmed  to  sleep  by  the  jingle  of  silver 
bells."] 

According  to  one  mode  of  regarding  those  two  classes 
of  mental  action  which  are  called  reason  and  imagina- 
tion, the  former  may  be  considered  as  mind  contemplat- 
ing the  relations  borne  by  one  thought  to  another,  how- 
ever produced,  and  the  latter  as  mind  acting  upon  those 
thoughts  so  as  to  color  them  with  its  own  light,  and  com- 
posing from  them,  as  from  elements,  other  thoughts,  each 
containing  within  itself  the  principle  of  its  own  integrity. 
The  one  is  the  rd  voulv,^  or  the  principle  of  synthesis, 
and  has  for  its  object  those  forms  which  are  common  to 
universal  nature  and  existence  itself;  the  other  is  the 
t6  \oyl^ew,  or  principle  of  analysis,  and  its  action  regards 
the  relations  of  things  simply  as  relations;  considering 
thoughts  not  in  their  integral  unity,  but  as  the  alge- 
braical representations  which  conduct  to  certain  general 
results.  Reason  is  the  enumeration  of  quantities  already 
known;  imagination  is  the  perception  of  the  value  of 
those  quantities,  both  separately  and  as  a  whole.  Reason 
respects  the  differences,  and  imagination  the  similitudes 
of  things.  Reason  is  to  imagination  as  the  instrument 
to  the  agent,  as  the  body  to  the  spirit,  as  the  shadow  to 
the  substance. 

Poetry,  in  a  general  sense,  may  be  defined  to  be  the 
expression  of  the  imagination;  and  poetry  is  connate 
with  the  origin  of  man.  Man  is  an  instrument  over 
which  a  series  of  external  and  internal  impressions  are 
driven,  like  the  alternations  of  an  ever-changing  wind 
over  an  ^olian  lyre,  which  move  it  by  their  motion  to 
ever-changing  melody.  But  there  is  a  principle  within 
the  human  being,  and  perhaps  within  all  sentient  beings, 

*  The  act  of  creating,  in  contrast  with  t!>  \oyiitw,  tho  act 
of  reasoning;  but  the  form  of  the  latter  is  grammatically  incor- 
rect, as  the  verb  is  deponent.  Shelley  probably  adapted  the 
phrases  from   the  Greek  for   himself. 


SHELLEY  277 

which  acts  otherwise  than  in  a  lyre,  and  produces  not 
melody  alone,  but  harmony,  by  an  internal  adjustment  of 
the  sounds  and  motions  thus  excited  to  the  impressions 
which  excite  them.  It  is  as  if  the  lyre  could  accommodate 
its  chords  to  the  motions  of  that  which  strikes  them,  in 
a  determined  proportion  of  sound;  even  as  the  musician 
can  accommodate  his  voice  to  the  sound  of  the  lyre.  A 
child  at  play  by  itself  will  express  its  delight  by  its 
voice  and  motions;  and  every  inflection  of  tone  and  every 
gesture  will  bear  exact  relation  to  a  corresponding  anti- 
type in  the  pleasurable  impressions  which  awakened  it; 
it  will  be  the  reflected  image  of  that  impression;  and  as 
the  lyre  trembles  and  sounds  after  the  wind  has  died 
away,  so  the  child  seeks,  by  prolonging  in  its  voice  and 
motions  the  duration  of  the  effect,  to  prolong  also  a 
consciousness  of  the  cause.  In  relation  to  the  objects 
which  delight  a  child,  these  expressions  are  what  poetry 
is  to  higher  objects.  The  savage  (for  the  savage  is  to 
ages  what  the  child  is  to  years)  expresses  the  emotions 
produced  in  him  by  surrounding  objects  in  a  similar 
manner;  and  language  and  gesture,  together  with  plastic 
or  pictorial  imitation,  become  the  image  of  the  combined 
effect  of  those  objects  and  his  apprehension  of  them. 
Man  in  society,  with  all  his  passions  and  his  pleasures, 
next  becomes  the  object  of  the  passions  and  pleasures  of 
man;  an  additional  class  of  emotions  produces  an  aug- 
mented treasure  of  expression ;  and  language,  gesture,  and 
the  imitative  arts,  become  at  once  the  representation  and 
the  medium,  the  pencil  and  the  picture,  the  chisel  and 
the  statue,  the  chord  and  the  harmony.  The  social  sym- 
pathies, or  those  laws  from  which,  as  from  its  elements, 
society  results,  begin  to  develop  themselves  from  the  mo- 
ment that  two  human  beings  co-exist;  the  future  is  con- 
tained within  the  present  as  the  plant  within  the  seed; 
and  equality,  diversity,  unity,  contrast,  mutual  depend- 
ence, become  the  principles  alone  capable  of  affording  the 
motives  according  to  which  the  will  of  a  social  being 
is  determined  to  action,  inasmuch  as  he  is  social;  and 
constitute  pleasure  in  sensation,  virtue  in  sentiment, 
beauty  in  art,  truth  in  reasoning,  and  love  in  the  inter- 
course of  kind.  Hence  men,  even  in  the  infancy  of 
society,  observe  a  certain  order  in  their  words  and  actions. 


278  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

distinct  from  that  of  the  objects  and  the  impressions 
represented  by  them,  all  expression  being  subject  to  the 
laws  of  that  from  which  it  proceeds.  But  let  us  dismiss 
those  more  general  considerations  which  might  involve 
an  inquiry  into  the  principles  of  society  itself,  and  restrict 
our  view  to  the  manner  in  which  the  imagination  is 
expressed  upon  its  forms. 

In  the  youth  of  the  world,  men  dance  and  sing  and 
imitate  natural  objects,  observing  in  these  actions,  as  in 
all  others,  a  certain  rhythm  or  order.  And,  although  all 
men  observe  a  similar,  they  observe  not  the  same  order  in 
the  motions  of  the  dance,  in  the  melody  of  the  song,  in  the 
combinations  of  language,  in  the  series  of  their  imitations 
of  natural  objects.  For  there  is  a  certain  order  or  rhythm 
belonging  to  each  of  these  classes  of  mimetic  representa- 
tion, from  which  the  hearer  and  the  spectator  receive 
an  intenser  and  purer  pleasure  than  from  any  other;  the 
sense  of  an  approximation  to  this  order  has  been  called 
taste  by  modern  writers.  Every  man,  in  the  infancy  of 
art,  observes  an  order  which  approximates  more  or  less 
closely  to  that  from  which  this  highest  delight  results; 
but  the  diversity  is  not  sufficiently  marked  as  that  its 
gradations  should  be  sensible,  except  in  those  instances 
where  the  predominance  of  this  faculty  of  approximation 
to  the  beautiful  (for  so  we  may  be  permitted  to  name 
the  relation  between  this  highest  pleasure  and  its  cause) 
is  very  great.  Those  in  whom  it  exists  to  excess  are 
poets,  in  the  most  universal  sense  of  the  word;  and  the 
pleasure  resulting  from  the  manner  in  which  they  ex- 
press the  influence  of  society  or  nature  upon  their  own 
minds,  communicates  itself  to  others,  and  gathers  a  sort 
of  reduplication  from  the  community.  Their  language  is 
vitally  metaphorical ;  that  is,  it  marks  the  before  unappre- 
hended relations  of  things  and  perpetuates  their  appre- 
hension, vmtil  words,  which  represent  them,  become, 
through  time,  signs  for  portions  or  classes  of  thought  in- 
stead of  pictures  of  integral  thoughts ;  and  then,  if  no  new 
poets  should  arise  to  create  afresh  the  associations  which 
have  been  thus  disorganized,  language  will  be  dead  to 
all  the  nobler  purposes  of  human  intercourse.  These 
similitudes  or  relations  are  finely  said  by  Lord  Bacon  to 
be   "the   same  footsteps   of  nature   impressed   upon   the 


SHELLEY  270 

various  subjects  of  the  world"  ^ — and  lie  considers  the  fac- 
ulty which  perceives  them  as  the  storehouse  of  axioms 
common  to  all  knowledge.  In  the  infancy  of  society  every 
author  is  necessarily  a  poet,  because  language  itself  is 
poetry ;  and  to  be  a  poet  is  to  apprehend  the  true  and  the 
beautiful, — in  a  word,  the  good  which  exists  in  the  rela- 
tion subsisting,  first  between  existence  and  perception, 
and  secondly  between  perception  and  expression.  Every 
original  language  near  to  its  source  is  in  itself  the  chaos 
of  a  cyclic  poem;  the  copiousness  of  lexicography  and  the 
distinctions  of  grammar  are  the  works  of  a  later  age,  and 
are  merely  the  catalogue  and  the  forms  of  the  creations 
of  poetry. 

But  poets,  or  those  who  imagine  and  express  this 
indestructible  order,  are  not  only  the  authors  of  language 
and  of  music,  of  the  dance,  and  architecture,  and  statuary^ 
and  painting:  they  are  the  institutors  of  laws,  and  the 
founders  of  civil  society,  and  the  inventors  of  the  arts 
of  life,  and  the  teachers  who  draw  into  a  certain  pro- 
pinquity with  the  beautiful  and  the  true  that  partial 
apprehension  of  the  agencies  of  the  invisible  world  which 
is  called  religion.  Hence  all  original  religions  are  alle- 
gorical, or  susceptible  of  allegory,  and,  like  Janus,  have 
a  double  face  of  false  and  true.  Poets,  according  to 
the  circumstances  of  the  age  and  nation  in  which  they 
appeared,  were  called,  in  the  earlier  epochs  of  the  world, 
legislators  or  prophets ;  ^  a  poet  essentially  comprises  and 
unites  both  these  characters.  For  he  not  only  beholds 
intensely  the  present  as  it  is,  and  discovers  those  laws 
according  to  which  present  things  ought  to  be  ordered, 
but  he  beholds  the  future  in  the  present,  and  his  thoughts 
are  the  germs  of  the  flower  and  the  fruit  of  latest  time. 
Not  that  I  assert  poets  to  be  prophets  in  the  gross  sense 
of  the  word,  or  that  they  can  foretell  the  form  as  surely 
as  they  foreknow  the  spirit  of  events ;  such  is  the  pretense 
of  superstition,  which  would  make  poetry  an  attribute  of 

*  Advancement  of  Leaminff,  Book  11.  Tho  original  reads:  "The 
same  footsteps  of  nature  treading  or  printing  upon  several  sub- 
jects or   matters." 

•Compare  Sidney,  Apology  for  Poetry:  "Among  the  Romans  a 
poet  was  called  vatea,  which  Is  as  much  as  a  diviner,  fore-seer,  or 
prophet,  as  by  his  conjoyned  words  vaticinium  and  vatioinari  la 
manifest :  so  beavenly  a  title  did  that  excellent  people  bestow 
apon  this  heart-ravlshlng  knowledge." 


280  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

prophecy,  rather  than  prophecy  an  attribute  of  poetry. 
A  poet  participates  in  the  eternal,  the  infinite,  and  the 
one;  as  far  as  relates  to  his  conceptions,  time  and  place 
and  number  are  not.  The  grammatical  forms  which  ex- 
press the  moods  of  time,  and  the  difference  of  persons, 
and  the  distinction  of  place,  are  convertible  with  respect 
to  the  highest  poetry  without  injuring  it  as  poetry;  and 
the  choruses  of  ^schylus,  and  the  Book  of  Joh,  and 
Dante's  Paradise,  would  afford,  more  than  any  other  writ- 
ings, examples  of  this  fact,  if  the  limits  of  this  essay 
did  not  forbid  citation.  The  creations  of  music,  sculp- 
ture, and  painting  are  illustrations  still  more  decisive. 

Language,  color,  form,  and  religious  and  civil  habits 
of  action,  are  all  the  instruments  and  materials  of  poetry ; 
they  may  be  called  poetry  by  that  figure  of  speech  which 
considers  the  effect  as  a  synonym  of  the  cause.  But 
poetry  in  a  more  restricted  sense  expresses  those  arrange- 
ments of  language,  and  especially  metrical  language, 
which  are  created  by  that  imperial  faculty  whose  throne 
is  curtained  within  the  invisible  nature  of  man.  And 
this  springs  from  the  nature  itself  of  language,  which 
is  a  more  direct  representation  of  the  actions  and  pas- 
sions of  our  internal  being,  and  is  susceptible  of  more 
various  and  delicate  combinations,  than  color,  form,  or 
motion,  and  is  more  plastic  and  obedient  to  the  control 
of  that  faculty  of  which  it  is  the  creation.  For  language 
is  arbitrarily  produced  by  the  imagination,  and  has  rela- 
tion to  thoughts  alone;  but  all  other  materials,  instru- 
ments, and  conditions  of  art  have  relations  among  each 
other,  which  limit  and  interpose  between  conception  and 
expression.  The  former  is  as  a  mirror  which  reflects, 
the  latter  as  a  cloud  which  enfeebles,  the  light  of  which 
both  are  mediums  of  communication.  Hence  the  fame 
of  sculptors,  painters,  and  musicians,  although  the  in- 
trinsic powers  of  the  great  masters  of  these  arts  may 
yield  in  no  degree  to  that  of  those  who  have  employed 
language  as  the  hieroglyphic  of  their  thoughts,  has  never 
equalled  that  of  poets  in  the  restricted  sense  of  the  term ; 
as  two  performers  of  equal  skill  will  produce  unequal 
effects  from  a  guitar  and  a  harp.  The  fame  of  legislators 
and  founders  of  religions,  so  long  as  their  institutions 
last,  alone  seems  to  exceed  that  of  poets  in  the  restricted 


SHELLEY  281 

sense;  but  it  can  scarcely  be  a  question,  whether,  if  we 
deduct  the  celebrity  which  their  flattery  of  the  gross 
opinions  of  the  vulgar  usually  conciliates,  together  with 
that  which  belonged  to  them  in  their  higher  character  of 
poets,  any  excess  will  remain. 

We  have  thus  circumscribed  the  word  poetry  within 
the  limits  of  that  art  which  is  the  most  familiar  and  the 
most  perfect  expression  of  the  faculty  itself.  It  is  neces- 
sary, however,  to  make  the  circle  still  narrower,  and  to 
determine  the  distinction  between  measured  and  un- 
measured language;  for  the  popular  division  into  prose 
and  verse  is  inadmissible  in  accurate  philosophy.* 

Sounds  as  well  as  thoughts  have  relation  both  between 
each  other  and  towards  that  which  they  represent,  and  a 
perception  of  the  order  of  those  relations  has  always  been 
found  connected  with  a  perception  of  the  order  of  the 
relations  of  thoughts.  Hence  the  language  of  poets  has 
ever  affected  a  sort  of  uniform  and  harmonious  recurrence 
of  sound,  without  which  it  were  not  poetry,  and  which  is 
scarcely  less  indispensable  to  the  communication  of  its 
influence  than  the  words  themselves  without  reference  to 
that  peculiar  order.  Hence  the  vanity  of  translation;  it 
were  as  wise  to  cast  a  violet  into  a  crucible  that  you  might 
discover  the  formal  principles  of  its  color  and  odor,  as 
seek  to  transfuse  from  one  language  into  another  the 
creations  of  a  poet.  The  plant  must  spring  again  from 
its  seed,  or  it  will  bear  no  flower — and  this  is  the  burthen 
of  the  curse  of  Babel. 

An  observation  of  the  regular  mode  of  the  recurrence 
of  harmony  in  the  language  of  poetical  minds,  together 
with  its  relation  to  music,  produced  meter,  or  a  certain 
system  of  traditional  forms  of  harmony  and  language. 
Yet  it  is  by  no  means  essential  that  a  poet  should  ac- 
commodate his  language  to  this  traditional  form,  so  that 
the  harmony,  which  is  its  spirit,  be  observed.  The  prac- 
tice is  indeed  convenient  and  popular,  and  to  be  preferred 
especially  in  such  composition  as  includes  much  action; 
but  every  great  poet  must  inevitably  innovate  upon  the 
example  of  his  predecessors  in  the  exact  structure  of  his 
peculiar  versification.  The  distinction  between  poets  and 
prose  writers  is  a  vulgar  error.     The  distinction  between 

*  Compare  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  p.  9. 


282  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

philosophers  and  poets  has  been  anticipated.  Plato  was  es- 
sentially a  poet — the  truth  and  splendor  of  his  imagery, 
and  the  melody  of  his  language,  are  the  most  intense  that 
it  is  possible  to  conceive.  He  rejected  the  harmony  of 
the  epic,  dramatic,  and  lyrical  forms,  because  he  sought 
to  kindle  a  harmony  in  thoughts  divested  of  shape  and 
action,  and  he  forbore  to  invent  any  regular  plan  of 
rhythm  which  would  include,  under  determinate  forms, 
the  varied  pauses  of  his  style.  Cicero  sought  to  imitate 
the  cadence  of  his  periods,  but  with  little  success.  Lord 
Bacon  was  a  poet.  His  language  has  a  sweet  and  majestic 
rhythm  which  satisfies  the  sense,  no  less  than  the  almost 
superhuman  wisdom  of  his  philosophy  satisfies  the  intel- 
lect; it  is  a  strain  which  distends  and  then  bursts  the 
circumference  of  the  reader's  mind,  and  pours  itself  forth 
together  with  it  into  the  universal  element  with  which 
it  has  perpetual  sympathy.  All  the  authors  of  revolutions 
in  opinion  are  not  only  necessarily  poets  as  they  are  in- 
ventors, nor  even  as  their  words  unveil  the  permanent 
analogy  of  things  by  images  which  participate  in  the  life 
of  truth ;  but  as  their  periods  are  harmonious  and  rhythm- 
ical, and  contain  in  themselves  the  elements  of  verse; 
being  the  echo  of  the  eternal  music.  Nor  are  those  su- 
preme poets,  who  have  employed  traditional  forms  of 
rhythm  on  account  of  the  form  and  action  of  their  sub- 
jects, less  capable  of  perceiving  and  teaching  the  truth 
of  things,  than  those  who  have  omitted  that  form. 
Shakespeare,  Dante,  and  Milton  (to  confine  ourselves  to 
modem  writers)  are  philosophers  of  the  very  loftiest 
power. 

A  poem  is  the  very  image  of  life  expressed  in  its  eter- 
nal truth.  There  is  this  difiPerence  between  a  story  and 
a  poem,  that  a  story  is  a  catalogue  of  detached  facts,  which 
have  no  other  connection  than  time,  place,  circumstance, 
cause  and  effect;  the  other  is  the  creation  of  actions  ac- 
cording to  the  unchangeable  forms  of  human  nature,  as 
existing  in  the  mind  of  the  creator,  which  is  itself  the 
image  of  all  other  minds.*   The  one  is  partial,  and  applies 

*  Compare  Aristotle  and  Wordsworth,  p.  13  and  Note  8 ;  also 
Sidney's  Apology:  "The  historian,  wanting  the  precept,  is  so 
tied,  not  to  what  should  be  but  to  what  is,  to  the  particular  truth 
of  things  and  not  to  the  general  reason  of  things,  that  bis  exam- 
ple draweth  no  necessary  consequence." 


SHELLEY  283 

only  to  a  definite  period  of  time,  and  a  certain  combina- 
tion of  events  which  can  never  again  recur;  the  other 
is  universal,  and  contains  within  itself  the  germ  of  a 
relation  to  whatever  motives  or  actions  have  place  in  the 
possible  varieties  of  human  nature.  Time,  which  destroys 
the  beauty  and  the  use  of  the  story  of  particular  facts, 
stripped  of  the  poetry  which  should  invest  them,  aug- 
ments that  of  poetry,  and  for  ever  develops  new  and 
wonderful  applications  of  the  eternal  truth  which  it  con- 
tains. Hence  epitomes  have  been  called  the  moths  of 
just  history;  *  they  eat  out  the  poetry  of  it.  A  story  of 
particular  facts  is  as  a  mirror  which  obscures  and  dis- 
torts that  which  should  be  beautiful;  poetry  is  a  mirror 
which  makes  beautiful  that  which  is  distorted. 

The  parts  of  a  composition  may  be  poetical,  without 
the  composition  as  a  whole  being  a  poem.'^  A  single  sen- 
tence may  be  considered  as  a  whole,  though  it  may  be 
found  in  the  midst  of  a  series  of  unassimilated  portions; 
a  single  word  even  may  be  a  spark  of  inextinguishable 
thought.  And  thus  all  the  great  historians,  Herodotus, 
Plutarch,  Livy,  were  poets;  and  although  the  plan  of 
these  writers,  especially  that  of  Livy,  restrained  them  from 
developing  this  faculty  in  its  highest  degree,  they  made 
copious  and  ample  amends  for  their  subjection,  by  filling 
all  the  interstices  of  their  subjects  with  living  images. 

Having  determined  what  is  poetry,  and  who  are  poets, 
let  us  proceed  to  estimate  its  effects  upon  society. 

Poetry  is  ever  accompanied  with  pleasure:  all  spirits 
on  which  it  falls  open  themselves  to  receive  the  wisdom 
which  is  mingled  with  its  delight.  In  the  infancy  of  the 
world,  neither  poets  themselves  nor  their  auditors  are 
fully  aware  of  the  excellency  of  poetry,  for  it  acts  in  a 
divine  and  unapprehended  manner,  beyond  and  above 
consciousness;  and  it  is  resen-ed  for  future  generations 
to  contemplate  and  measure  the  mighty  cause  and  effect 
in  all  the  strength  and  splendor  of  their  union.  Even  in 
modern  times,  no  living  poet  ever  arrived  at  the  fulness 
of  his  fame;  the  jury  which  sits  in  judgment  upon  a 
poet,  belonging  as  he  does  to  all  time,  must  be  composed 

•  Bacon,  Advancement  of  Learning,  Book  ii.  The  word  "Just" 
is  not  in  the  origrinal. 

*  Compare  Coleridge,  p.  110,  and   Newman,  p.   312. 


284  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

of  his  peers;  it  must  be  impanelled  by  Time  from  the 
selectest  of  the  wise  of  many  generations.  A  poet  is 
a  nightingale,  who  sits  in  darkness  and  sings  to  cheer 
its  own  solitude  with  sweet  sounds;  his  auditors  are  as 
men  entranced  by  the  melody  of  an  unseen  musician,  who 
feel  that  they  are  moved  and  softened,  yet  know 
not  whence  or  why.  The  poems  of  Homer  and  his 
contemporaries  were  the  delight  of  infant  Greece; 
they  were  the  elements  of  that  social  system  which 
is  the  column  upon  which  all  succeeding  civiliza- 
tion has  reposed.  Homer  embodied  the  ideal  per- 
fection of  his  age  in  human  character;  nor  can  we  doubt 
that  those  who  read  his  verses  were  awakened  to  an 
ambition  of  becoming  like  to  Achilles,  Hector,  and  Ulys- 
ses; the  truth  and  beauty  of  friendship,  patriotism,  and 
persevering  devotion  to  an  object,  were  unveiled  to  their 
depths  in  these  immortal  creations;  the  sentiments  of 
the  auditors  must  have  been  refined  and  enlarged  by 
a  sympathy  with  such  great  and  lovely  impersonations, 
until  from  admiring  they  imitated,  and  from  imitation 
they  identified  themselves  with  the  objects  of  their  ad- 
miration. Nor  let  it  be  objected  that  these  characters 
are  remote  from  moral  perfection,  and  that  they  are  by 
no  means  to  be  considered  as  edifying  patterns  for  gen- 
eral imitation.  Every  epoch,  under  names  more  or  less 
specious,  has  deified  its  peculiar  errors;  Revenge  is  the 
naked  idol  of  the  worship  of  a  semi-barbarous  age;  and 
Self-deceit  is  the  veiled  image  of  unknown  evil,  before 
which  luxury  and  satiety  lie  prostrate.  But  a  poet  con- 
siders the  vices  of  his  contemporaries  as  the  temporary 
dress  in  which  his  creations  must  be  arrayed,  and  which 
cover  without  concealing  the  eternal  proportions  of  their 
beauty.  An  epic  or  dramatic  personage  is  understood 
to  wear  them  around  his  soul,  as  he  may  the  ancient 
armor  or  modem  uniform  around  his  body;  whilst  it 
is  easy  to  conceive  a  dress  more  graceful  than  either. 
The  beauty  of  the  internal  nature  can  not  be  so  far 
concealed  by  its  accidental  vesture,  but  that  the  spirit 
of  its  form  shall  communicate  itself  to  the  very  disguise, 
and  indicate  the  shape  it  hides  from  the  manner  in  which 
it  is  worn.  A  majestic  form  and  graceful  motions  will 
express  themselves  through  the  most  barbarous  and  taste- 


SHELLEY  285 

less  costume.  Few  poets  of  the  highest  class  have  chosen 
to  exhibit  the  beauty  of  their  conceptions  in  its  naked 
truth  and  splendor;  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  alloy 
of  costume,  habit,  etc.,  be  not  necessary  to  temper  this 
planetary  music  for  mortal  ears. 

The  whole  objection,  however,  of  the  immorality  of 
poetry  rests  upon  a  misconception  of  the  manner  in  which 
poetry  acts  to  produce  the  moral  improvement  of  man. 
Ethical  science  arranges  the  elements  which  poetry  has 
created,  and  propounds  schemes  and  proposes  examples 
of  civil  and  domestic  life;  nor  is  it  for  want  of  admirable 
doctrines  that  men  hate,  and  despise,  and  censure,  and 
deceive,  and  subjugate  one  another.  But  poetry  acts  in 
another  and  diviner  manner.  It  awakens  and  enlarges 
the  mind  itself  by  rendering  it  the  receptacle  of  a  thou- 
sand unapprehended  combinations  of  thought.  Poetry 
lifts  the  veil  from  the  hidden  beauty  of  the  world,  and 
makes  familiar  objects  be  as  if  they  were  not  familiar; 
it  reproduces  all  that  it  represents,  and  the  impersona- 
tions clothed  in  its  Elysian  light  stand  thenceforward  in 
the  minds  of  those  who  have  once  contemplated  them, 
as  memorials  of  that  gentle  and  exalted  content  which 
extends  itself  over  all  thoughts  and  actions  with  which  it 
co-exists.  The  great  secret  of  morals  is  love;  or  a  going 
out  of  our  own  nature,  and  an  identification  of  ourselves 
with  the  beautiful  which  exists  in  thought,  action,  or 
person,  not  our  own.  A  man,  to  be  greatly  good,  must 
imagine  intensely  and  comprehensively ;  he  must  put  him- 
self in  the  place  of  another  and  of  many  others;  the 
pains  and  pleasures  of  his  species  must  become  his  own. 
The  great  instrument  of  moral  good  is  the  imagination; 
and  poetry  administers  to  the  effect  by  acting  upon  the 
cause.  Poetry  enlarges  the  circumference  of  the  imagina- 
tion by  replenishing  it  with  thoughts  of  ever  new  delight, 
which  have  the  power  of  attracting  and  assimilating  to 
their  own  nature  all  other  thoughts,  and  which  form  new 
intervals  and  interstices  whose  void  for  ever  craves  fresh 
food.  Poetry  strengthens  the  faculty  which  is  the  organ 
of  the  moral  nature  of  man,  in  the  same  manner  as 
exercise  strengthens  a  limb.  A  poet  therefore  would  do 
ill  to  embody  his  own  conceptions  of  right  and  wrong, 
which  are  usually  those  of  his  place  and  time,  in  his 


286  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

poetical  creations,  which  participate  in  neither.  By  this 
assumption  of  the  inferior  office  of  interpreting  the 
effect,  in  -which  perhaps  after  all  he  might  acquit  himself 
but  imperfectly,  he  would  resign  a  glory  in  the  participa- 
tion of  the  cause.  There  was  little  danger  that  Homer, 
or  any  of  the  eternal  poets,  should  have  so  far  misunder- 
stood themselves  as  to  have  abdicated  this  throne  of  their 
widest  dominion.  Those  in  whom  the  poetical  faculty, 
though  great,  is  less  intense,  as  Euripides,  Lucan,  Tasso, 
Spenser,  have  frequently  affected  a  moral  aim,  and  the 
effect  of  their  poetry  is  diminished  in  exact  proportion 
to  the  degree  in  which  they  compel  us  to  advert  to  this 
purpose. 

Homer  and  the  cyclic  poets  were  followed  at  a  certain 
interval  by  the  dramatic  and  lyrical  poets  of  Athens,  who 
flourished  contemporaneously  with  all  that  is  most  per- 
fect in  the  kindred  expressions  of  the  poetical  faculty: 
architecture,  painting,  music,  the  dance,  sculpture,  philos- 
ophy, and  we  may  add,  the  forms  of  civil  life.  For  al- 
though the  scheme  of  Athenian  society  was  deformed  by 
many  imperfections  which  the  poetry  existing  in  chivalry 
and  Christianity  has  erased  from  the  habits  and  institu- 
tions of  modern  Europe,  yet  never  at  any  other  period 
has  so  much  energy,  beaut^^,  and  virtue  been  developed; 
never  was  blind  strength  and  stubborn  form  so  disci- 
plined and  rendered  subject  to  the  will  of  man,  or  that 
will  less  repugnant  to  the  dictates  of  the  beautiful  and 
the  true,  as  during  the  century  which  preceded  the 
death  of  Socrates.  Of  no  other  epoch  in  the  history  of 
our  species  have  we  records  and  fragments  stamped  so 
visibly  with  the  image  of  the  divinity  in  man.  But  it  is 
poetry  alone,  in  form,  in  action,  and  in  language,  which 
has  rendered  this  epoch  memorable  above  all  others, 
and  the  storehouse  of  examples  to  everlasting  time. 
For  written  poetry  existed  at  that  epoch  simultaneously 
with  the  other  arts,  and  it  is  an  idle  inquiry  to  demand 
which  gave  and  which  received  the  light,  which  all,  as 
from  a  common  focus,  have  scattered  over  the  darkest 
periods  of  succeeding  time.  We  know  no  more  of  cause 
and  effect  than  a  constant  conjunction  of  events;  poetry 
is  ever  found  to  co-exist  with  whatever  other  arts  con- 
tribute to  the  happiness  and  perfection  of  man.    I  appeal 


SHELLEY  287 

to  what  has  already  been  established  to  distinguish  be- 
tween the  cause  and  the  effect. 

It  was  at  the  period  here  adverted  to  that  the  drama 
had  its  birth;  and  however  a  succeeding  writer  may  have 
equalled  or  surpassed  those  few  great  specimens  of  the 
Athenian  drama  which  have  been  preserved  to  us,  it  is 
indisputable  that  the  art  itself  never  was  understood 
or  practised  according  to  the  true  philosophy  of  it,  as 
at  Athens.  For  the  Athenians  employed  language,  ac- 
tion, music,  painting,  the  dance,  and  religious  institu- 
tion, to  produce  a  common  effect  in  the  representation  of 
the  highest  idealisms  of  passion  and  of  power;  each  divi- 
sion in  the  art  was  made  perfect  in  its  kind  by  artists  of 
the  most  consummate  skill,  and  was  disciplined  into  a 
beautiful  proportion  and  unity  one  towards  the  other. 
On  the  modern  stage  a  few  only  of  the  elements  capable 
of  expressing  the  image  of  the  poet's  conception  are 
employed  at  once.  We  have  tragedy  without  music  and 
dancing,  and  music  and  dancing  without  the  highest 
impersonations  of  which  they  are  the  fit  accompaniment, 
and  both  without  religion  and  solemnity.  Religious  in- 
stitution has  indeed  been  usually  banished  from  the  stage. 
Our  system  of  divesting  the  actor's  face  of  a  mask,*  on 
which  the  many  expressions  appropriated  to  his  dramatic 
character  might  be  molded  into  one  permanent  and  un- 
changing expression,  is  favorable  only  to  a  partial  and 
inharmonious  effect ;  it  is  fit  for  nothing  but  a  monologue, 
where  all  the  attention  may  be  directed  to  some  great 
master  of  ideal  mimicry.  The  modem  practice  of  blend- 
ing comedy  with  tragedy,  though  liable  to  great  abuse 
in  point  of  practice,  is  undoubtedly  an  extension  of  the 
dramatic  circle;  but  the  comedy  should  be  as  in  King 
Lear,  universal,  ideal,  and  sublime.  It  is  perhaps  the 
intervention  of  this  principle  which  determines  the  bal- 
ance in  favor  of  King  Lear  against  the  CEdipus  Tyrannus 
or  the  Agamemnon,  or,  if  you  will,  the  trilogies  with  which 
they  are  connected;  unless  the  intense  power  of  the 
choral  poetry,  especially  that  of  the  latter,  should  be 
considered  as  restoring  the  equilibrium.  King  Lear,  if 
it  cannot  sustain  this  comparison,  may  be  judged  to  be 

» Compare  Coleridge,  p.  157,  and  note. 


288  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

the  most  perfect  specimen  of  the  dramatic  art  existing 
in  the  world,  in  spite  of  the  narrow  conditions  to  which 
the  poet  was  subjected  by  the  ignorance  of  the  philosophy 
of  the  drama  which  has  prevailed  in  modern  Europe. 
Calderon,  in  his  religious  autos,^  has  attempted  to  fulfil 
some  of  the  high  conditions  of  dramatic  representation 
neglected  by  Shakespeare,  such  as  the  establishing  a  rela- 
tion between  the  drama  and  religion,  and  the  accommodat- 
ing them  to  music  and  dancing;  but  he  omits  the  obser- 
vation of  conditions  still  more  important,  and  more  is 
lost  than  gained  by  the  substitution  of  the  rigidly  defined 
and  ever  repeated  idealisms  of  a  distorted  superstition  for 
the  living  impersonations  of  the  truth  of  human  passion. 

But  I  digress. — The  connection  of  scenic  exhibitions 
with  the  improvement  or  corruption  of  the  manners  of 
men  has  been  universally  recognized;  in  other  words,  the 
presence  or  absence  of  poetry  in  its  most  perfect  and 
universal  form  has  been  found  to  be  connected  with  good 
and  evil  in  conduct  or  habit.  The  corruption  which  has 
been  imputed  to  the  drama  as  an  effect  begins  when  the 
poetry  employed  in  its  constitution  ends;  I  appeal  to 
the  history  of  manners  whether  the  periods  of  the  growth 
of  the  one  and  the  decline  of  the  other  have  not  corre- 
sponded with  an  exactness  equal  to  any  example  of  moral 
cause  and  effect. 

The  drama  at  Athens,  or  wheresoever  else  it  may  have 
approached  to  its  perfection,  ever  co-existed  with  the 
moral  and  intellectual  greatness  of  the  age.  The  trage- 
dies of  the  Athenian  poets  are  as  mirrors  in  which  the 
spectator  beholds  himself,  under  a  thin  disguise  of  cir- 
cumstance, stripped  of  all  but  that  ideal  perfection  and 
energy  which  every  one  feels  to  be  the  internal  type  of  all 
that  he  loves,  admires,  and  would  become.  The  imagina- 
tion is  enlarged  by  a  sympathy  with  pains  and  passions 
so  mighty  that  they  distend  in  their  conception  the  capac- 
ity of  that  by  which  they  are  conceived;  the  good  affec- 
tions are  strengthened  by  pity,  indignation,  terror  and 
sorrow,  and  an  exalted  calm  is  prolonged  from  the  satiety 

•  Spanish  ecclesiastical  plays  of  the  17th  century.  In  a  letter 
of  September  21,  1819,  Shelley  wrote  :  "I  have  read  about  twelve 
of  [Calderon's]  plays.  Some  of  them  certainly  deserve  to  be 
ranked  amone  the  greatest  and  most  perfect  productions  of  the 
human   mind. ' 


SHELLEY  289 

of  this  high  exercise  of  them  into  the  tumult  of  familiar 
life;  even  crime  is  disarmed  of  half  its  horror  and  all 
its  contagion  by  being  represented  as  the  fatal  conse- 
quence of  the  unfathomable  agencies  of  nature;  ^°  error  is 
thus  divested  of  its  wilfulness ;  men  can  no  longer  cherish 
it  as  the  creation  of  their  choice.  In  the  drama  of  the 
highest  order  there  is  little  food  for  censure  or  hatred; 
it  teaches  rather  self-knowledge  and  self-respect.  Neither 
the  eye  nor  the  mind  can  see  itself,  unless  reflected  upon 
that  which  it  resembles.  The  drama,  so  long  as  it 
continues  to  express  poetry,  is  a  prismatic  and  many- 
sided  mirror,  which  collects  the  brightest  rays  of  human 
nature  and  divides  and  reproduces  them  from  the  sim- 
plicity of  their  elementary  forms,  and  touches  them  with 
majesty  and  beauty,  and  multiplies  all  that  it  reflects, 
and  endows  it  with  the  power  of  propagating  its  like 
wherever  it  may  fall. 

But  in  periods  of  the  decay  of  social  life,  the  drama  sym- 
pathizes with  that  decay.  Tragedy  becomes  a  cold  imita- 
tion of  the  forms  of  the  great  masterpieces  of  antiquity,  di- 
vested of  all  harmonious  accompaniment  of  the  kindred 
arts ;  and  often  the  very  form  misunderstood,  or  a  weak  at- 
tempt to  teach  certain  doctrines  which  the  writer  consid- 
ers as  moral  truths,  and  which  are  usually  no  more  than 
specious  flatteries  of  some  gross  vice  or  weakness  with 
which  the  author,  in  common  with  his  auditors,  are  infect- 
ed. Hence  what  has  been  called  the  classical  and  domestic 
drama.* ^  Addison's  Cato  is  a  specimen  of  the  one;  and 
would  it  were  not  superfluous  to  cite  examples  of  the 
other!  To  such  purposes  poetry  cannot  be  made  subser- 
vient. Poetry  is  a  sword  of  lightning,  ever  unsheathed, 
which  consumes  the  scabbard  that  would  contain  it. 
And  hence  we  observe  that  all  dramatic  writings  of  this 
nature  are  unimaginative  in  a  singular  degree;  they  affect 
sentiment  and  passion,  which,  divested  of  imagination, 
are  other  names  for  caprice  and  appetite.  The  period 
in  our  own  history  of  the  grossest  degradation  of  the 
drama  is  the  reign  of  Charles  II,  when  all  forms  in  which 

"This  passage  implies  Shelley's  belief  in  the  doctrine  of  Neces- 
sity, which  he  had  derived  in  part  from  the  writings  of  William 
Godwin. 

"  The  two  chief  types  of  English  tragedy  in  the  18th  century. 
For  the  latter,  see  Lamb's  remarlvs  on   Lillo,  p.  170. 


290  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

poetry  had  been  accustomed  to  be  expressed  became 
hymns  to  the  triumph  of  kingly  power  over  liberty  and 
virtue.  Milton  stood  alone,  illuminating  an  age  un- 
worthy of  him.  At  such  periods  the  calculating  prin- 
ciple pervades  all  the  forms  of  dramatic  exhibition,  and 
poetry  ceases  to  be  expressed  upon  them.  Comedy  loses 
its  ideal  universality;  wit  succeeds  to  humor;  we  laugh 
from  self-complacency  and  triumph,  instead  of  pleasure; 
malignity,  sarcasm,  and  contempt  succeed  to  sympathetic 
merriment;  we  hardly  laugh,  but  we  smile.  Obscenity, 
which  is  ever  blasphemy  against  the  divine  beauty  in 
life,  becomes,  from  the  very  veil  which  it  assumes,  more 
active  if  less  disgusting;  it  is  a  monster  for  which  the 
corruption  of  society  for  ever  brings  forth  new  food, 
which  it  devours  in  secret. 

The  drama  being  that  form  under  which  a  greater 
number  of  modes  of  expression  of  poetry  are  susceptible 
of  being  combined  than  any  other,  the  connection  of 
poetry  and  social  good  is  more  observable  in  the  drama 
than  in  whatever  other  form.  And  it  is  indisputable  that 
the  highest  perfection  of  human  society  has  ever  corre- 
sponded with  the  highest  dramatic  excellence;  and  that 
the  corruption  or  the  extinction  of  the  drama  in  a  nation 
where  it  has  once  flourished,  is  a  mark  of  a  corruption 
of  manners,  and  an  extinction  of  the  energies  which 
sustain  the  soul  of  social  life.  But,  as  Machiavelli  says  of 
political  institutions,  that  life  may  be  preserved  and 
renewed,  if  men  should  arise  capable  of  bringing  back 
the  drama  to  its  principles.  And  this  is  true  with  re- 
spect to  poetry  in  its  most  extended  sense;  all  language, 
institution  and  form,  require  not  only  to  be  produced  but 
to  be  sustained ;  the  office  and  character  of  a  poet  partici- 
pates in  the  divine  nature  as  regards  providence,  no  less 
than  as  regards  creation. 

Civil  war,  the  spoils  of  Asia,  and  the  fatal  predomi- 
nance first  of  the  Macedonian,  and  then  of  the  Eoman 
arms,  were  so  many  symbols  of  the  extinction  or  suspen- 
sion of  the  creative  faculty  in  Greece.  The  bucolic 
writers,^*  who  found  patronage  under  the  lettered  tyrants 
of  Sicily  and  Egypt,  were  the  latest  representatives  of 
its  most  glorious  reign.     Their  poetry  is  intensely  melo- 

>*  Pastoral  poets,  particularly  Theocritus,  Bion,  and  Moscbus. 


SHELLEY  291 

dious;  like  the  odor  of  the  tuberose,  it  overcomes  and 
sickens  the  spirit  with  excess  of  sweetness;  whilst  the 
poetry  of  the  preceding  age  was  as  a  meadow-gale  of 
June,  which  mingles  the  fragrance  of  all  the  flowers  of 
the  field,  and  adds  a  quickening  and  harmonizing  spirit  of 
its  own  which  endows  the  sense  with  a  power  of  sustain- 
ing its  extreme  delight.  The  bucolic  and  erotic  delicacy 
in  written  poetry  is  correlative  with  that  softness  in 
statuary,  music,  and  the  kindred  arts,  and  even  in  man- 
ners and  institutions,  which  distinguished  the  epoch  to 
which  I  now  refer.  Nor  is  it  the  poetical  faculty  itself, 
or  any  misapplication  of  it,  to  which  this  want  of  harmony 
is  to  be  imputed.  An  equal  sensibility  to  the  influence 
of  the  senses  and  the  affections  is  to  be  found  in  the 
writings  of  Homer  and  Sophocles;  the  former,  especially, 
has  clothed  sensual  and  pathetic  images  with  irresistible 
attractions.  Their  superiority  over  these  succeeding  writ- 
ers consists  in  the  presence  of  those  thoughts  which  be- 
long to  the  inner  faculties  of  our  nature,  not  in  the 
absence  of  those  which  are  connected  with  the  external; 
their  incomparable  perfection  consists  in  a  harmony  of 
the  union  of  all.  It  is  not  what  the  erotic  poets  have, 
but  what  they  have  not,  in  which  their  imperfection  con- 
sists. It  is  not  inasmuch  as  they  were  poets,  but  inas- 
much as  they  were  not  poets,  that  they  can  be  considered 
with  any  plausibility  as  connected  with  the  corruption 
of  their  aga  Had  that  corruption  availed  so  as  to  ex- 
tinguish in  them  the  sensibility  to  pleasure,  passion,  and 
natural  scenery  which  is  imputed  to  them  as  an  imper- 
fection, the  last  triumph  of  evil  would  have  been  achieved. 
For  the  end  of  social  corruption  is  to  destroy  all  sensi- 
bility to  pleasure;  and  therefore  it  is  corruption.  It 
begins  at  the  imagination  and  the  intellect  as  at  the 
core,  and  distributes  itself  thence  as  a  paralyzing  venom 
through  the  affections  into  the  very  appetites,  until  all 
become  a  torpid  mass  in  which  hardly  sense  survives. 
At  the  approach  of  such  a  period,  poetry  ever  addresses 
itself  to  those  faculties  which  are  the  last  to  be  destroyed, 
and  its  voice  is  heard,  like  the  footsteps  of  Astrsea,^'  de- 

'"  Goddess  of  justice.  Ovid  had  written  {Mctamorphotcs,  I, 
ISO)  :  "The  virgin  Astrsa  is  the  last  of  the  heavenly  deifies  to 
abandon  the  earth." 


292  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

parting  from  the  world.  Poetry  ever  communicates  all 
the  pleasure  which  men  are  capable  of  receiving ;  it  is  ever 
still  the  light  of  life,  the  source  of  whatever  of  beautiful 
or  generous  or  true  can  have  place  in  an  evil  time.  It 
will  readily  be  confessed  that  those  among  the  luxurious 
citizens  of  Syracuse  and  Alexandria  who  were  delighted 
with  the  poems  of  Theocritus  were  less  cold,  cruel,  and 
sensual  than  the  remnant  of  their  tribe.  But  corruption 
must  utterly  have  destroyed  the  fabric  of  human  society 
before  poetry  can  ever  cease.  The  sacred  links  of  that 
chain  have  never  been  entirely  disjoined,  which  descend- 
ing through  the  minds  of  many  men  is  attached  to  those 
great  minds,  whence  as  from  a  magnet  the  invisible 
effluence  is  sent  forth,  which  at  once  connects,  animates, 
and  sustains  the  life  of  all.^*  It  is  the  faculty  which  con- 
tains within  itself  the  seeds  at  once  of  its  own  and  of 
social  renovation.  And  let  us  not  circumscribe  the  eflFects 
of  the  bucolic  and  erotic  poetry  within  the  limits  of 
the  sensibility  of  those  to  whom  it  was  addressed.  They 
may  have  perceived  the  beauty  of  those  immortal  com- 
positions, simply  as  fragments  and  isolated  portions; 
those  who  are  more  finely  organized,  or  born  in  a  happier 
age,  may  recognize  them  as  episodes  to  that  great  poem 
which  all  poets,  like  the  co-operating  thoughts  of  one 
great  mind,  have  built  up  since  the  beginning  of  the  world. 
The  same  revolution  within  a  narrower  sphere  had 
place  in  ancient  Rome;  but  the  actions  and  forms  of  its 
social  life  never  seem  to  have  been  perfectly  saturated 
with  the  poetical  element.  The  Romans  appear  to  have 
considered  the  Greeks  as  the  selectest  treasuries 
of  the  selectest  forms  of  manners  and  of  nature, 
and  to  have  abstained  from  creating  in  measured 
language,  sculpture,  music,  or  architecture,  any  thing 
which  might  bear  a  particular  relation  to  their 
own  condition,  whilst  it  should  bear  a  general  one  to 
the  universal  constitution  of  the  world.     But  we  judge 

'*  A  Platonic  fl^re.  Compare  Shelley's  translation  of  the  dia- 
lo^e  Ion:  "As  the  power  of  the  stone  [i.e.,  the  magnet]  circu- 
lates through  all  the  links  of  this  series,  and  attaches  each  to 
each,  so  the  Muse,  communicating  through  those  whom  she  has 
first  inspired,  to  all  others  capable  of  sharing  in  the  inspiration, 
the  influence  of  that  first  enthusiasm,  creates  a  chain  and  a  suc- 
cession." 


SHELLEY  293 

from  partial  evidence,  and  we  judge  perhaps  partially. 
Ennius,  Varro,  Pacuvius,  and  Accius,  all  great  poets, 
have  been  lost.  Lucretius  is  in  the  highest,  and  Virgil 
in  a  very  high  sense,  a  creator.  The  chosen  delicacy  of 
expressions  of  the  latter  are  as  a  mist  of  light  which 
conceal  from  us  the  intense  and  exceeding  truth  of  his 
conceptions  of  nature.  Livy  is  instinct  with  poetry.  Yet 
Horace,  Catullus,  Ovid,  and  generally  the  other  great 
writers  of  the  Virgilian  age,  saw  man  and  nature  in 
the  mirror  of  Greece.  The  institutions  also,  and  the 
religion  of  Rome,  were  less  poetical  than  those  of  Greece, 
as  the  shadow  is  less  vivid  than  the  substance.  Hence 
poetry  in  Eome  seemed  to  follow,  rather  than  accompany, 
the  perfection  of  political  and  domestic  society.  The 
true  poetry  of  Rome  lived  in  its  institutions;  for  what- 
ever of  beautiful,  of  true  and  majestic,  they  contained, 
could  have  sprung  only  from  the  faculty  which  creates 
the  order  in  which  they  consist.  The  life  of  Camillus, 
the  death  of  Regulus;  the  expectation  of  the  senators,  in 
their  godlike  state,  of  the  victorious  Gauls;  the  refusal 
of  the  republic  to  make  peace  with  Hannibal  after  the 
battle  of  Cannae,  were  not  the  consequences  of  a  refined 
calculation  of  the  probable  personal  advantage  to  result 
from  such  a  rhythm  and  order  in  the  shows  of  life,  to 
those  who  were  at  once  the  poets  and  the  actors  of  these 
immortal  dramas.  The  irtiagination,  beholding  the  beauty 
of  this  order,  created  it  out  of  itself  according  to  its 
own  idea;  the  consequence  was  empire,  and  the  reward 
everlasting  fame.  These  things  are  not  the  less  poetry 
quia  carent  rate  sacro.^^  They  are  the  episodes  of  that 
cyclic  poem  written  by  Time  upon  the  memories  of  men. 
The  Past,  like  an  inspired  rhapsodist,  fills  the  theater 
of  everlasting   generations   with   their  harmony. 

At  length  the  ancient  system  of  religion  and  manners 
had  fulfilled  the  circle  of  its  evolutions.  And  the  world 
•would  have  fallen  into  utter  anarchy  and  darkness,  but 
that  there  were  found  poets  among  the  authors  of  the 
Christian  and  chivalric  systems  of  manners  and  religion, 
who  created  forms  of  opinion  and  action  never  before 
conceived;  which,  copied  into  the  imaginations  of  men, 

"  "Because  they  lack  a  bard"  to  celebrate  them  (Horace,  Odea, 


294  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

became  as  generals  to  the  bewildered  armies  of  their 
thoughts.  It  is  foreign  to  the  present  purpose  to  touch 
upon  the  evil  produced  by  these  systems;  except  that  we 
protest,  on  the  ground  of  the  principles  already  estab- 
lished, that  no  portion  of  it  can  be  attributed  to  the 
poetry  they  contain. 

It  is  probable  that  the  poetry  of  Moses,  Job,  David, 
Solomon,  and  Isaiah  had  produced  a  great  effect  upon  the 
mind  of  Jesus  and  his  disciples.  The  scattered  fragments 
preserved  to  us  by  the  biographers  of  this  extraordinary 
person  are  all  instinct  with  the  most  vivid  poetry.  But 
his  doctrines  seem  to  have  been  quickly  distorted.  At  a 
certain  period  after  the  prevalence  of  a  system  of  opinions 
founded  upon  those  promulgated  by  him,  the  three  forms 
into  which  Plato  had  distributed  the  faculties  of  mind 
underwent  a  sort  of  apotheosis,  and  became  the  object  of 
the  worship  of  the  civilized  world.^^  Here  it  is  to  be 
confessed  that  "Light"  seems  to  "thicken," 

And  the  crow  makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood; 
Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drowse, 
Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  preys  do  rouse." 

But  mark  how  beautiful  an  order  has  sprung  from  the 
dust  and  blood  of  this  fierce  chaos !  how  the  world,  as  from 
a  resurrection,  balancing  itself  on  the  golden  wings  of 
knowledge  and  of  hope,  has  reassumed  its  yet  unwearied 
flight  into  the  heaven  of  time.  Listen  to  the  music,  un- 
heard by  outward  ears,  which  is  as  a  ceaseless  and  invis- 
ible wind,  nourishing  its  everlasting  course  with  strength 
and  swiftness. 

The  poetry  in  the  doctrines  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  the 
mythology  and  institutions  of  the  Celtic  conquerors  of  the 
Koman  empire,  outlived  the  darkness  and  the  convulsions 
connected  with  their  growth  and  victory,  and  blended 
themselves  in  a  new  fabric  of  manners  and  opinion.  It 
is  an  error  to  impute  the  ignorance  of  the  Dark  Ages  to 
the  Christian  doctrines  or  the  predominance  of  the  Celtic 
nations.    Whatever  of  evil  their  agencies  may  have  con- 

>•  Shelley,  who  bad  always  been  an  opponent  of  Christian  theol- 
ogy, explains  In  this  way  the  origin  of  the  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity. 

"  Macheth.  Ill,  il,  50-53. 


SHELLEY  295 

tained  gprangr  from  the  extinction  of  the  poetical  prin- 
ciple, connected  with  the  progress  of  despotism  and  super- 
stition. Men,  from  causes  too  intricate  to  be  here  dis- 
cussed, had  become  insensible  and  selfish;  their  own  will 
had  become  feeble,  and  yet  they  were  its  slaves,  and 
thence  the  slaves  of  the  will  of  others;  lust,  fear,  avarice, 
cruelty,  and  fraud,  characterized  a  race  amongst  whom 
no  one  was  to  be  found  capable  of  creating  in  form,  lan- 
guage, or  institution.  The  moral  anomalies  of  such  a 
state  of  society  are  not  justly  to  be  charged  upon  any 
class  of  events  immediately  connected  with  them,  and 
those  events  are  most  entitled  to  our  approbation  which 
could  dissolve  it  most  expeditiously.  It  is  unfortunate 
for  those  who  cannot  distinguish  words  from  thoughts, 
that  many  of  these  anomalies  have  been  incorporated 
into  our  popular  religion. 

It  was  not  until  the  eleventh  century  that  the  eflFecta 
of  the  poetry  of  the  Christian  and  chivalric  systems  began 
to  manifest  themselves.  The  principle  of  equality  had 
been  discovered  and  applied  by  Plato  in  his  Republic,  as 
the  thieoretical  rule  of  the  mode  in  which  the  materials 
of  pleasure  and  of  power  produced  by  the  common  skill 
and  labor  of  human  beings  ought  to  be  distributed  among 
them.  The  limitations  of  this  rule  were  asserted  by  him 
to  be  determined  only  by  the  sensibility  of  each,  or  the 
utility  to  result  to  all.  Plato,  following  the  doctrines 
of  Timseus  and  Pythagoras,  taught  also  a  moral  and 
intellectual  system  of  doctrine,  comprehending  at  once 
the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future  condition  of  man. 
Jesus  Christ  divulged  the  sacred  and  eternal  truths  con- 
tained in  these  views  to  mankind,  and  Christianity,  in  its 
abstract  purity,  became  the  exoteric  expression  of  the 
esoteric  doctrines  of  the  poetry  and  wisdom  of  antiquity. 
The  incorporation  of  the  Celtic  nations  with  the  exhausted 
population  of  the  south  impressed  upon  it  the  figure  of 
the  poetry  existing  in  their  mythology  and  institutions. 
The  result  was  a  sum  of  the  action  and  reaction  of  all 
the  causes  incluued  in  it;  for  it  may  be  assumed  as  a 
maxim  ihat  no  nation  or  religion  can  supersede  any 
other  without  incorporating  into  itself  a  portion  of  that 
which  it  supersedes.  The  abolition  of  personal  and  do- 
mestic  slavery,    and    the   emancipation    of   women   from 


296  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

a  great  part  of  the  degrading  restraints  of  antiquity, 
were  among  the  consequences  of  these  events. 

The  abolition  of  personal  slavery  is  the  basis  of  the 
highest  political  hope  that  it  can  enter  into  the  mind 
of  man  to  conceive.  The  freedom  of  women  produced 
the  poetry  of  sexual  love.  Love  became  a  religion,  the 
idols  of  whose  worship  were  ever  present.  It  was  as  if 
the  statues  of  Apollo  and  the  Muses  had  been  endowed 
with  life  and  motion,  and  had  walked  forth  among  their 
worshippers;  so  that  earth  became  peopled  by  the  inhabi- 
tants of  a  diviner  world.  The  familiar  appearances  and 
proceedings  of  life  became  wonderful  and  heavenly,  and 
a  paradise  was  created  as  out  of  the  wrecks  of  Eden. 
And  as  this  creation  itself  is  poetry,  so  its  creators  were 
poets,  and  language  was  the  instrument  of  their  art: 
"Galeotto  fu  il  libro,  e  chi  lo  scrisse."  ^*  The  Provengal 
Trouveurs,  or  inventors,  preceded  Petrarch,  whose  verses 
are  as  spells  which  unseal  the  inmost  enchanted  foun- 
tains of  the  delight  which  is  in  the  grief  of  love.  It  is 
impossible  to  feel  them  without  becoming  a  portion  of 
that  beauty  which  we  contemplate;  it  were  superfluous  to 
explain  how  the  gentleness  and  elevation  of  mind  con- 
nected with  these  sacred  emotions  can  render  men  more 
amiable,  more  generous  and  wise,  and  lift  them  out  of  the 
dull  vapors  of  the  little  world  of  self.  Dante  understood 
the  secret  things  of  love  even  more  than  Petrarch.  His 
Vita  Nuova  is  an  inexhaustible  fountain  of  purity  of 
sentiment  and  language;  it  is  the  idealized  history  of 
that  period  and  those  intervals  of  his  life  which  were 
dedicated  to  love.  His  apotheosis  of  Beatrice  in  Para- 
dise, and  the  gradations  of  his  own  love  and  her  loveli- 
ness, by  which  as  by  steps  he  feigns  himself  to  have  as- 
cended to  the  throne  of  the  Supreme  Cause,^®  is  the  most 
glorious  imagination  of  modem  poetry.  The  acutest 
critics  have  justly  reversed  the  judgment  of  the  vulgar 
and  the  order  of  the  great  acts  of  the  Divina  Commedia, 
in  the  measure  of  the  admiration  which  they  accord  to 
Hell,  Purgatory,  and  Paradise.  The  latter  is  a  perpetual 
hymn  of  everlasting  love.    Love,  which  found  a  worthy 

>■  "Galeotto  was  the  book  and  he  who  wrote  It"  (Dante,  In- 
ferno, V,   137). 

'•  See  the  Paradiso,  pn««fm. 


SHELLEY  297 

poet  in  Plato  alone  of  all  the  ancients,  has  been  celebrated 
by  a  chorus  of  the  greatest  writers  of  the  renovated  world ; 
and  the  music  has  penetrated  the  caverns  of  society,  and 
its  echoes  still  drown  the  dissonance  of  arms  and  super- 
stition. At  successive  intervals,  Ariosto,  Tasso,  Shake- 
speare, Spenser,  Calderon,  Rousseau,  and  the  great  writers 
of  our  own  age,  have  celebrated  the  dominion  of  love, 
planting  as  it  were  trophies  in  the  human  mind  of  that 
sublimest  victory  over  sensuality  and  force.  The  true 
relation  borne  to  each  other  by  the  sexes  into  which 
human  kind  is  distributed  has  become  less  misunderstood ; 
and  if  the  error  which  confounded  diversity  with  inequal- 
ity of  the  powers  of  the  two  sexes  has  been  partially  recog- 
nized in  the  opinions  and  institutions  of  modem  Europe, 
we  owe  this  great  benefit  to  the  worship  of  which  chivalry 
was  the  law,  and  poets  the  prophets. 

The  poetry  of  Dante  may  be  considered  as  the  bridge 
thrown  over  the  stream  of  time,  which  unites  the  mod- 
ern and  ancient  world.  The  distorted  notions  of  invisible 
things  which  Dante  and  his  rival  Milton  have  idealized, 
are  merely  the  mask  and  the  mantle  in  which  these  great 
poets  walk  through  eternity  enveloped  and  disguised.  It 
is  a  diflScult  question  to  determine  how  far  they  were 
conscious  of  the  distinction  which  must  have  subsisted  in 
their  minds  between  their  own  creeds  and  that  of  the 
people.  Dante  at  least  appears  to  wish  to  mark  the 
full  extent  of  it  by  placing  Riphseus,*"  whom  Virgil  calls 
justissimus  unus,  in  Paradise,  and  observing  a  most  her- 
etical caprice  in  his  distribution  of  rewards  and  punish- 
ments. And  Milton's  poem  contains  within  itself  a  philo- 
sophical refutation  of  that  system,  of  which,  by  a  strange 
and  natural  antithesis,  it  has  been  a  chief  popular  support. 
Nothing  can  exceed  the  energy  and  magnificence  of  the 
character  of  Satan  as  expressed  in  Paradise  Lost.  It  is 
a  mistake  to  suppose  that  he  could  ever  have  been  in- 
tended for  the  popular  personification  of  evil.  Implacable 
hate,  patient  cunning,  and  a  sleepless  refinement  of  device 
to  inflict  the  extremest  anguish  on  an  enemy,  these  things 
are  evil!  and,  although  venial  in  a  slave,  are  not  to  be 
forgiven  in  a  tyrant;  although  redeemed  by  much  that 

^  A  Trojan.     See  the  Paradito,  xx,  67  ff. 


398  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

ennobles  his  defeat  in  one  subdued,  are  marked  by  all 
that  dishonors  his  conquest  in  the  victor.  Milton's  Devil 
as  a  moral  being  is  as  far  superior  to  his  God,  as  one  who 
perseveres  in  some  purpose  which  he  has  conceived  to  be 
excellent,  in  spite  of  adversity  and  torture,  is  to  one  who 
in  the  cold  security  of  undoubted  triumph  inflicts  the  most 
horrible  revenge  upon  his  enemy,  not  from  any  mistaken 
notion  of  inducing  him  to  repent  of  a  perseverance  in 
enmity,  but  with  the  alleged  design  of  exasperating  him 
to  deserve  new  torments.  Milton  has  so  far  violated  the 
popular  creed  (if  this  shall  be  judged  to  be  a  violation) 
as  to  have  allied  no  superiority  of  moral  virtue  to  his 
God  over  his  Devil.^^  And  this  bold  n^lect  of  a  direct 
moral  purpose  is  the  most  decisive  proof  of  the  supremacy 
of  Milton's  genius.  He  mingled  as  it  were  the  elements 
of  human  nature  as  colors  upon  a  single  pallet,  and 
arranged  them  in  the  composition  of  his  great  picture 
according  to  the  laws  of  epic  truth,  that  is,  according  to 
the  laws  of  that  principle  by  which  a  series  of  actions  of 
the  external  universe  and  of  intelligent  and  ethical  beings 
is  calculated  to  excite  the  sympathy  of  succeeding  genera- 
tions of  mankind.  The  Divina  Commedia  and  Paradise 
Lost  have  conferred  upon  modem  mythology  a  systematic 
form;  and  when  change  and  time  shall  have  added  one 
more  superstition  to  the  mass  of  those  which  have  arisen 
and  decayed  upon  the  earth,  commentators  wiU  be  learn- 
edly employed  in  elucidating  the  religion  of  ancestral 
Europe,  only  not  utterly  forgotten  because  it  will  have 
been  stamped  with  the  eternity  of  genius. 

Homer  was  the  first  and  Dante  the  second  epic  poet: 
that  is,  the  second  poet,  the  series  of  whose  creations  bore 
a  defined  and  intelligible  relation  to  the  knowledge  and 
sentiment  and  religion  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  and 
of  the  ages  which  followed  it,  developing  itself  in  corre- 
spondence with  their  development.  For  Lucretius  had 
limed  the  wings  of  his  swift  spirit  in  the  dregs  of  the 
sensible  world ;  and  Virgil,  with  a  modesty  that  ill  became 
his  genius,  had  affected  the  fame  of  an  imitator,  even 
whilst  he  created  anew  all  that  he  copied;  and  none 
among  the  flock  of  mock-birds,  though  their  notes  are 

*  A  miBrepresentation  of  Milton's  Intention :  yet  the  moral  dlg- 
.nlty  of  the  Satan  of  Paradise  Lott  bad  often  been  remarked. 


SHELLEY  399 

sweet,  ApoUonius  Rhodius,  Quintus  (Calaber)  Smymseus, 
Nonntis,  Luean,  Statius,  or  Claudian,^^  have  sought  even 
to  fulfil  a  single  condition  of  epic  truth.  Milton  was 
the  third  epic  poet.  For  if  the  title  of  epic  in  its  highest 
sense  be  refused  to  the  JEneid,  still  less  can  it  be  conceded 
to  the  Orlando  Furioso,  the  Gerusalemme  Liberata,  the 
Lusiad,  or  the  Fairy  Queen.^^ 

Dante  and  Milton  were  both  deeply  penetrated  with 
the  ancient  religion  of  the  civilized  world,  and  its  spirit 
exists  in  their  poetry  probably  in  the  same  proportion 
as  its  forms  survived  in  the  unreformed  worship  of 
modem  Europe.  The  one  preceded  and  the  other  followed 
the  Reformation  at  almost  equal  intervals.  Dante  was 
the  first  religious  reformer,  and  Luther  surpassed  him 
rather  in  the  rudeness  and  acrimony  than  in  the  boldness 
of  his  censures  of  papal  usurpation.  Dante  was  the  first 
awakener  of  entranced  Europe;  he  created  a  language, 
in  itself  music  and  persuasion,  out  of  a  chaos  of  inhar- 
monius  barbarisms.  He  was  the  congregator  of  those 
great  spirits  who  presided  over  the  resurrection  of  learn- 
ing, the  Lucifer  of  that  starry  flock  which  in  the  thir- 
teenth century  shone  forth  from  republican  Italy,  as  from 
a  heaven,  into  the  darkness  of  the  benighted  world.  His 
very  words  are  instinct  with  spirit;  each  is  as  a  spark, 
a  burning  atom  of  inextinguishable  thought;  and  many 
yet  lie  covered  in  the  ashes  of  their  birth,  and  pregnant 
with  a  lightning  which  has  yet  found  no  conductor.  All 
high  poetry  is  infinite;  it  is  as  the  first  acorn,  which  con- 
tained all  oaks  potentially.  Veil  after  veil  may  be  un- 
drawn, and  the  inmost  naked  beauty  of  the  meaning 
never  exposed.  A  great  poem  is  a  fountain  for  ever  over- 
flowing with  the  waters  of  wisdom  and  delight;  and  after 
one  person  and  one  age  has  exhausted  all  its  divine  ef- 
fluence which  their  peculiar  relations  enable  them  to 
share,  another  and  yet  another  succeeds,  and  new  rela- 
tions are  ever  developed,  the  source  of  an  unforeseen  and 
an  unconceived  delight. 

The  age  immediately  succeeding  to  that  of  Dante, 
Petrarch,  and  Boccaccio  was  characterized  by  a  revival 
of  painting,  sculpture,  and  architecture.     Chaucer  caught 

"  Minor  Greek  and  Latin  epic  poets. 

**  Narrative  poems  by  Ariosto,  Tasso,  Camoens,  and  Spenser. 


800  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

the  sacred  inspiration,  and  the  superstructure  of  English 
literature  is  based  upon  the  materials  of  Italian  invention. 
But  let  us  not  be  betrayed  from  a  defence  into  a  crit- 
ical history  of  poetry  and  its  influence  on  society.  Be 
it  enough  to  have  pointed  out  the  effects  of  poets,  in  the 
large  and  true  sense  of  the  word,  upon  their  own  and 
all  succeeding  times. 

But  poets  have  been  challenged  to  resign  the  civic 
crown  to  reasoners  and  mechanists,  on  another  plea.  It 
is  admitted  that  the  exercise  of  the  imagination  is  most 
delightful,  but  it  is  alleged  that  that  of  reason  is  more 
useful.  Let  us  examine,  as  the  grounds  of  this  distinc- 
tion, what  is  here  meant  by  utility.  Pleasure  or  good, 
in  a  general  sense,  is  that  which  the  consciousness  of  a 
sensitive  and  intelligent  being  seeks,  and  in  which,  when 
foimd,  it  acquiesces.  There  are  two  kinds  of  pleasure, 
one  durable,  universal,  and  permanent;  the  other  transi- 
tory and  particular.  Utility  may  either  express  the 
means  of  producing  the  former  or  the  latter.  In  the  for- 
mer sense,  whatever  strengthens  and  purifies  the  affec- 
tions, enlarges  the  imagination,  and  adds  spirit  to  sense, 
is  useful.  But  a  narrower  meaning  may  be  assigned  to 
the  word  utility,  confining  it  to  express  that  which  ban- 
ishes the  importunity  of  the  wants  of  our  animal  nature, 
the  surrounding  men  with  security  of  life,  the  dispersing 
the  grosser  delusions  of  superstition,  and  the  conciliat- 
ing such  a  degree  of  mutual  forbearance  among  men  as 
may  consist  with  the  motives  of  personal  advantage. 

Undoubtedly  the  promoters  of  utility,  in  this  limited 
sense,  have  their  appointed  office  in  society.  They  follow 
the  footsteps  of  poets,  and  copy  the  sketches  of  their 
creations  into  the  book  of  common  life.  They  make 
space  and  give  time.  Their  exertions  are  of  the  highest 
value,  so  long  as  they  confine  their  administration  of 
the  concerns  of  the  inferior  powers  of  our  nature  within 
the  limits  due  to  the  superior  ones.  But  whilst  the  skep- 
tic destroys  gross  superstitions,  let  him  spare  to  deface. 
as  some  of  the  French  writers  '*  have  defaced,  the  eternal 
truths  charactered  upon  the  imaginations  of  men.  Whilst 
the  mechanist  abridges,  and  the  political  economist  com- 

»*8och  as  Voltaire  and  other  radical  skeptics  of  the  18th  cen- 
tury; see  the  opening  of  the  third  paragraph  following. 


SHELLEY  301 

bines  labor,  let  them  beware  that  their  speculations,  for 
want  of  correspondence  with  those  first  principles  which 
belong  to  the  imagination,  do  not  tend,  as  they  have  in 
modem  England,  to  exasperate  ^^  at  once  the  extremes  of 
luxury  and  of  want.  They  have  exemplified  the  saying, 
*'To  him  that  hath,  more  shall  be  given;  and  from  him 
that  hath  not,  the  little  that  he  hath  shall  be  taken 
away."  ^^  The  rich  have  become  richer,  and  the  poor  have 
become  poorer;  and  the  vessel  of  the  state  is  driven  be- 
tween the  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of  anarchy  and  des- 
potism. Such  are  the  effects  which  must  ever  flow  from 
an  unmitigated  exercise  of  the  calculating  faculty. 

It  is  difficult  to  define  pleasure  in  its  highest  sense, 
the  definition  involving  a  number  of  apparent  paradoxes. 
For,  from  an  inexplicable  defect  of  harmony  in  the  con- 
stitution of  human  nature,  the  pain  of  the  inferior  is  fre- 
quently connected  with  the  pleasures  of  the  superior  por- 
tions of  our  being.  Sorrow,  terror,  anguish,  despair  it- 
self, are  often  the  chosen  expressions  of  an  approxima- 
tion to  the  highest  good.  Our  sympathy  in  tragic  fiction 
depends  on  this  principle;  tragedy  delights  by  affording 
a  shadow  of  that  pleasure  which  exists  In  pain.  This  is 
the  source  also  of  the  melancholy  which  is  inseparable 
from  the  sweetest  melody.  The  pleasure  that  is  in  sor- 
row is  sweeter  than  the  pleasure  of  pleasure  itself.  And 
hence  the  saying,  "It  is  better  to  go  to  the  house  of  mourn- 
ing than  to  the  house  of  mirth."  ^^  Not  that  this  highest 
species  of  pleasure  is  necessarily  linked  with  pain.  The 
delight  of  love  and  friendship,  the  ecstasy  of  the  ad- 
miration of  nature,  the  joy  of  the  perception  and  still 
more  of  the  creation  of  poetry,  is  often  wholly  unalloyed. 

The  production  and  assurance  of  pleasure  in  this  high- 
est sense  is  4rue  utility.  Those  who  produce  and  pre- 
serve this  pleasure  are  poets  or  poetical  philosophers. 

The  exertions  of  Locke,  Hume,  Gibbon,  Voltaire,  Rous- 
seau, and  their  disciples,  in  favor  of  oppressed  and  de- 
luded humanity,  are  entitled  to  the  gratitude  of  mankind. 
Yet  it  is  easy  to  calculate  the  degree  of  moral  and  in- 
tellectual improvement  which  the  world  would  have  ex- 

*•  Aggravate,   intensify;  compare  "exasperation,"  p.  303. 
**  Matthew  25:21)    Unaccurately  quoted). 
"  Ecclctiaater  7  :2. 


302  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

hibited,  had  they  never  lived.  A  little  more  nonsense 
would  have  been  talked  for  a  century  or  two;  and  per- 
haps a  few  more  men,  women,  and  children  burnt  as 
heretics.  We  might  not  at  this  moment  have  been  con- 
gratulating each  other  on  the  abolition  of  the  Inquisition 
in  Spain.28  But  it  exceeds  all  imagination  to  conceive 
what  would  have  been  the  moral  condition  of  the  world 
if  neither  Dante,  Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  Chaucer,  Shake- 
speare, Calderon,  Lord  Bacon,  nor  Milton,  had  ever  ex- 
isted; if  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  had  never  been 
bom;  if  the  Hebrew  poetry  had  never  been  translated; 
if  a  revival  of  the  study  of  Greek  literature  had  never 
taken  place;  if  no  monuments  of  ancient  sculpture  had 
been  handed  down  to  us ;  and  if  the  poetry  of  the  religion 
of  the  ancient  world  had  been  extinguished  together  with 
its  belief.  The  human  mind  could  never,  except  by  the 
intervention  of  these  excitements,  have  been  awakened  to 
the  invention  of  the  grosser  sciences,  and  that  application 
of  analytical  reasoning  to  the  aberrations  of  society  which 
it  is  now  attempted  to  exalt  over  the  direct  expression 
of  the  inventive  and  creative  faculty  itseK. 

We  have  more  moral,  political,  and  historical  wisdom 
than  we  know  how  to  reduce  into  practice;  we  have  more 
scientific  and  economical  knowledge  than  can  be  accom- 
modated to  the  just  distribution  of  the  produce  which  it 
multiplies.  The  poetry  in  these  systems  of  thought  is 
concealed  by  the  accumulation  of  facts  and  calculating 
processes.  There  is  no  want  of  knowledge  respecting  what 
is  wisest  and  best  in  morals,  government,  and  political 
economy,  or  at  least  what  is  wiser  and  better  than  what 
men  now  practice  and  endure.  But  we  let  "/  dare  not 
wait  upon  /  would,  like  the  poor  cat  in  the  adage."  ^9  We 
want  the  creative  faculty  to  imagine  that  which  we  know ; 
we  want  the  generous  impulse  to  act  that  which  we  imag- 
ine; we  want  the  poetry  of  life:  our  calculations  have 
outrun  conception;  we  have  eaten. more  than  we  can  di- 
gest. The  cultivation  of  those  sciences  which  have  en- 
larged the  limits  of  the  empire  of  man  over  the  external 
world,  has,  for  want  of  the  poetical  faculty,  proportion- 
ally circumscribed  those  of  the  internal  world;  and  man, 

^Abolished  by  the  Spanish  Cortes  In  1820. 
«•  Macbeth,  I,  vil,  44-45. 


SHELLEY  303 

having  enslaved  the  elements,  remains  himself  a  slave. 
To  what  but  a  cultivation  of  the  mechanical  arts  in  a 
degree  disproportioned  to  the  presence  of  the  creative  fac- 
ulty, which  is  the  basis  of  all  knowledge,  is  to  be  attrib- 
uted the  abuse  of  all  invention  for  abridging  and  com- 
bining labor,  to  the  exasperation  of  the  inequality  of 
mankind?  From  what  other  cause  has  it  arisen  that  the 
discoveries  which  should  have  lightened  have  added  a 
weight  to  the  curse  imposed  on  Adam?  Poetry,  and  the 
principle  of  Self  of  which  money  is  the  visible  incarna- 
tion, are  the  God  and  Mammon  of  the  world. 

The  functions  of  the  poetical  faculty  are  two-fold:  by 
one  it  creates  new  materials  of  knowledge,  and  power, 
and  pleasure;  by  the  other  it  engenders  in  the  mind  a 
desire  to  reproduce  and  arrange  them  according  to  a  cer- 
tain rhythm  and  order  which  may  be  called  the  beautiful 
and  the  good.  The  cultivation  of  poetry  is  never  more 
to  be  desired  than  at  periods  when,  from  an  excess  of 
the  selfish  and  calculating  principle,  the  accumulation  of 
the  materials  of  external  life  exceed  the  quantity  of  the 
power  of  assimilating  them  to  the  internal  laws  of  hu- 
man nature.  The  body  has  then  become  too  unwieldy  for 
that  which  animates  it. 

Poetry  is  indeed  something  divine.  It  is  at  once  the 
center  and  circumference  of  knowledge;  it  is  that  which 
comprehends  all  science,  and  that  to  which  all  science 
must  be  referred.^"  It  is  at  the  same  time  the  root  and 
blossom  of  all  other  systems  of  thought;  it  is  that  from 
which  all  spring,  and  that  which  adorns  all;  and  that 
which,  if  blighted,  denies  the  fruit  and  the  seed,  and 
withholds  from  the  barren  world  the  nourishment  and 
the  succession  of  the  scions  of  the  tree  of  life.  It  is  the 
perfect  and  consummate  surface  and  bloom  of  all  things; 
it  is  as  the  odor  and  the  color  of  the  rose  to  the  texture 
of  the  elements  which  compose  it,  as  the  form  and  splen- 
dor of  unfaded  beauty  to  the  secrets  of  anatomy  and  cor- 
ruption. What  were  virtue,  love,  patriotism,  friendship; 
what  were  the  scenery  of  this  beautiful  universe  which 
we  inhabit;  what  were  our  consolations  on  this  side  of 
the  grave,  and  what  were  our  aspirations  beyond  it, — if 

*•  Compare  Wordsworth,  p.  15. 


304  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

poetry  did  not  ascend  to  bring  light  and  fire  from  those 
eternal  regions  where  the  owl-winged  faculty  of  calcula- 
tion dare  not  ever  soar?  Poetry  is  not  like  reasoning,  a 
power  to  be  exerted  according  to  the  determination  of  the 
will.  A  man  cannot  say,  "I  will  compose  poetry."  The 
greatest  poet  even  cannot  say  it;  for  the  mind  in  crea- 
tion is  as  a  fading  coal,  which  some  invisible  influence, 
like  an  inconstant  wind,  awakens  to  transitory  brightness ; 
this  power  arises  from  within,  like  the  color  of  a  flower 
which  fades  and  changes  as  it  is  developed,  and  the  con- 
scious portions  of  our  natures  are  unprophetic  either  of 
its  approach  or  its  departure.  Could  this  influence  be 
durable  in  its  original  purity  and  force,  it  is  impossible 
to  predict  the  greatness  of  the  results;  but  when  com- 
position begins,  inspiration  is  already  on  the  decline,  and 
the  most  glorious  poetry  that  has  ever  been  communicated 
to  the  world  is  probably  a  feeble  shadow  of  the  original 
conceptions  of  the  poet.  I  appeal  to  the  greatest  poets 
of  the  present  day  whether  it  is  not  an  error  to  assert 
that  the  finest  passages  of  poetry  are  produced  by  labor 
and  study.  The  toil  and  the  delay  recommended  by  crit- 
ics can  be  justly  interpreted  to  mean  no  more  than  a 
careful  observation  of  the  inspired  moments,  and  an  arti- 
ficial connection  of  the  spaces  between  their  suggestions 
by  the  intertexture  of  conventional  expressions — a  neces- 
sity only  imposed  by  the  limitedness  of  the  poetical  fac- 
ulty itself;  for  Milton  conceived  the  Paradise  Lost  as  a 
whole  before  he  executed  it  in  portions.  We  have  his 
own  authority  also  for  the  muse  having  "dictated"  to  him 
the  "unpremeditated  song."  *^  And  let  this  be  an  answer 
to  those  who  would  allege  the  fifty-six  various  readings 
of  the  first  line  of  the  Orlando  Furioso.  Compositions 
so  produced  are  to  poetry  what  mosaic  is  to  painting.  The 
instinct  and  intuition  of  the  poetical  faculty  is  still  more 
obsen^able  in  the  plastic  and  pictorial  arts :  a  great  statue 
or  picture  grows  under  the  power  of  the  artist  as  a  child 
in  the  mother's  womb;  and  the  very  mind  which  directs 
the  hands  in  formation  is  incapable  of  accounting  to 
itself  for  the  origin,  the  gradations,  or  the  media  of  the 
process. 

*^  Paradise  Lost,  ix,  24    ("verse,"  not  "song"). 


SHELLEY  305 

Poetry  is  the  record  of  the  best  and  happiest  moments 
of  the  happiest  and  best  minds.  We  are  aware  of  evan- 
escent visitations  of  thought  and  feeling,  sometimes  as- 
sociated with  place  or  person,  sometimes  regarding  our 
own  mind  alone,  and  always  arising  unforeseen  and  de- 
parting unbidden,  but  elevating  and  delightful  beyond 
all  expression;  so  that  even  in  the  desire  and  the  regret 
they  leave,  there  cannot  but  be  pleasure,  participating  as 
it  does  in  the  nature  of  its  object.  It  is  as  it  were  the 
interpenetration  of  a  diviner  nature  through  our  own;^^ 
but  its  footsteps  are  like  those  of  a  wind  over  the  sea, 
which  the  morning  calm  erases,  and  whose  traces  remain 
only,  as  on  the  wrinkled  sand  which  paves  it.  These  and 
corresponding  conditions  of  being  are  experienced  prin- 
cipally by  those  of  the  most  delicate  sensibility  and  the 
most  enlarged  imagination;  and  the  state  of  mind  pro- 
duced by  them  is  at  war  with  every  base  desire.  The 
enthusiasm  of  virtue,  love,  patriotism,  and  friendship  is 
essentially  linked  with  such  emotions;  and  whilst  they 
last,  self  appears  as  what  it  is,  an  atom  to  a  universe. 
Poets  are  not  only  subject  to  these  experiences  as  spirits 
of  the  most  refined  organization,  but  they  can  color  all 
that  they  combine  with  the  evanescent  hues  of  this  ethe- 
real world;  a  word,  a  trait  in  the  representation  of  a 
scene  or  a  passion  will  touch  the  enchanted  chord,  and 
reanimate,  in  those  who  have  ever  experienced  these  emo- 
tions, the  sleeping,  the  cold,  the  buried  image  of  the  past. 
Poetry  thus  makes  immortal  all  that  is  best  and  most 
beautiful  in  the  world;  it  arrests  the  vanishing  appari- 
tions which  haunt  the  interlunations  of  life,  and,  veiling 
them  or  in  language  or  in  form,  sends  them  forth  among 
mankind,  bearing  sweet  news  of  kindred  joy  to  those  with 
whom  their  sisters  abide — abide,  because  there  is  no  por- 
tal of  expression  from  the  caverns  of  the  spirit  which 
they  inhabit  into  the  universe  of  things.  Poetry  redeems 
from  decay  the  visitations  of  the  divinity  in  man. 

Poetry  turns  all  things  to  loveliness;  it  exalts  the  beauty 

**  Compare  Plato,  In  Shelley's  version  of  the  Ion:  "Those  who 
declaim  various  and  beautiful  poetry  .  .  .  are  not  enabled  to  do 
so  by  art  or  study  ;  but  every  rhapsodist  or  poet  ...  is  excellent 
In  proportion  to  the  extent  of  his  participation  in  the  divine  in- 
fluence and  the  degree  in  which  the  Muse  itself  has  descended 
on  him." 


306  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

of  that  which  is  most  beautiful,  and  it  adds  beauty  to  that 
which  is  most  deformed ;  it  marries  exultation  and  horror, 
grief  and  pleasure,  eternity  and  change;  it  subdues  to 
union  under  its  light  yoke  all  irreconcilable  things.  It 
transmutes  all  that  it  touches,  and  every  form  moving 
within  the  radiance  of  its  presence  is  changed  by  won- 
drous sympathy  to  an  incarnation  of  the  spirit  which  it 
breathes;  its  secret  alchemy  turns  to  potable  gold  the 
poisonous  waters  which  flow  from  death  through  life;  it 
strips  the  veil  of  familiarity  from  the  world,  and  lays 
bare  the  naked  and  sleeping  beauty  which  is  the  spirit 
of  its  forms. 

All  things  exist  as  they  are  perceived :  at  least  in  rela- 
tion to  the  percipient. 

The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 

Can  make  a  Heaven  of  Hell,  a  Hell  of  Heaven." 

But  poetry  defeats  the  curse  which  binds  us  to  be  sub- 
jected to  the  accident  of  surrounding  impressions.  And 
whether  it  spreads  its  own  figured  curtain,  or  withdraws 
life's  dark  veil  from  before  the  scene  of  things,  it  equally 
creates  for  us  a  being  within  our  being.  It  makes  us 
the  inhabitant  of  a  world  to  which  the  familiar  world  is 
a  chaos.  It  reproduces  the  common  universe  of  which  we 
are  portions  and  percipients,  and  it  purges  from  our  in- 
ward sight  the  film  of  familiarity  which  obscures  from 
us  the  wonder  of  our  being.  It  compels  us  to  feel  that 
which  we  perceive,  and  to  imagine  that  which  we  know. 
It  creates  anew  the  universe,  after  it  has  been  annihilated 
in  our  minds  by  the  recurrence  of  impressions  blunted 
by  reiteration.  It  justifies  the  bold  and  true  word  of 
Tasso :  Non  merita  nome  di  creatore,  se  non  Iddio  ed  il 
Foetal* 

A  poet,  as  he  is  the  author  to  others  of  the  highest 
wisdom,  pleasure,  virtue,  and  glory,  so  he  ought  person- 
ally to  be  the  happiest,  the  best,  the  wisest,  and  the  most 
illustrious  of  men.  As  to  his  glory,  let  time  be  challenged 
to  declare  whether  the  fame  of  any  other  institutor  of 
human  life  be  comparable  to  that  of  a  poet.     That  he  is 

«  Paradise  Lost,  1,  254-55. 

**  "None  deserves  tbe  name  of  creator  save  God  and  the  Poet." 


SHELLEY  307 

the  wisest,  the  happiest,  and  the  best,  inasmuch  as  he  is 
a  poet,  is  equally  incontrovertible :  the  greatest  poets  have 
been  men  of  the  most  spotless  virtue,  of  the  most  con- 
summate prudence,  and,  if  we  would  look  into  the  interior 
of  their  lives,  the  most  fortunate  of  men;  and  the  excep- 
tions, as  they  regard  those  who  possessed  the  poetic  fac- 
ulty in  a  high  yet  inferior  degree,  will  be  found  on  con- 
sideration to  confirm  rather  than  destroy  the  rule.^"'  Let 
U8  for  a  moment  stoop  to  the  arbitration  of  popular  breath, 
and,  usurping  and  uniting  in  our  own  persons  the  incom- 
patible characters  of  accuser,  witness,  judge,  and  execu- 
tioner, let  us  decide  without  trial,  testimony,  or  form, 
that  certain  motives  of  those  who  are  "there  sitting 
where  we  dare  not  soar"  are  reprehensible.  Let  us  as- 
sume that  Homer  was  a  drunkard,  that  Virgil  was  a  flat- 
terer, that  Horace  was  a  coward,  that  Tasso  was  a  mad- 
man, that  Lord  Bacon  was  a  peculator,  that  Raphael  was 
a  libertine,  that  Spenser  was  a  poet  laureate.^"  It  is  in- 
consistent with  this  division  of  our  subject  to  cite  living 
poets,  but  posterity  has  done  ample  justice  to  the  great 
names  now  referred  to.  Their  errors  have  been  weighed 
and  found  to  have  been  dust  in  the  balance;  if  their  sins 
were  as  scarlet,  they  are  now  white  as  snow;  they  have 
been  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  mediator  and  redeemer, 
Time.  Observe  in  what  a  ludicrous  chaos  the  imputa- 
tions of  real  or  fictitious  crime  have  been  confused  in  the 
contemporary  calumnies  against  poetry  and  poets  ;^^  con- 
sider how  little  is  as  it  appears — or  appears  as  it  is; 
look  to  your  own  motives,  and  judge  not,  lest  ye  be  judged. 
Poetry,  as  has  been  said,  differs  in  this  respect  from 
logic,  that  it  is  not  subject  to  the  control  of  the  active 
powers  of  the  mind,  and  that  its  birth  and  recurrence 
have  no  necessary  connection  with  the  consciousness  or 
will.     It  is  presumptuous  to  determine  that  these  are  the 

*'  Comparp  Newman,  p.  320. 

^  This  contpmptuoua  uso  of  the  title  "poet  laureate"  is  due  to 
Shelley's  hatred  of  subserviency  to  courtly  honors  on  the  part  of 
men  of  letters,  and  more  particularly  to  the  animosity  existine 
between  Southey,  then  poet  laureate,  and  the  poets  of  the  radical 
group.     The  title  Is  not  accurately  used   of  Spenser. 

"  Shelley  probably  has  in  mind  his  friends  Lei^h  Hunt  and  Lord 
Byron,  as  well  as  himself ;  In  all  these  cases  public  opinion  had 
confused  alleged  immorality  Id  the  poets'  writings  and  in  their 
Uvea  (for  Hunt,  see  the  note  oa  p.  166). 


808  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

necessary  conditions  of  all  mental  causation,  when  men- 
tal effects  are  experienced  insusceptible  of  being  referred 
to  them.  The  frequent  recurrence  of  the  poetical  power, 
it  is  obvious  to  suppose,  may  produce  in  the  mind  a  habit 
of  order  and  harmony  correlative  with  its  own  nature 
and  with  its  effects  upon  other  minds.  But  in  the  inter- 
vals of  inspiration — and  they  may  be  frequent  without 
being  durable — a  poet  becomes  a  man,  and  is  abandoned 
to  the  sudden  reflux  of  the  influences  under  which  others 
habitually  live.  But  as  he  is  more  delicately  organized 
than  other  men,  and  sensible  to  pain  and  pleasure,  both 
his  own  and  that  of  others,  in  a  degree  unknown  to  them, 
he  will  avoid  the  one  and  pursue  the  other  with  an  ardor 
proportioned  to  this  difference.  And  he  renders  himself 
obnoxious  to  calumny  when  he  neglects  to  observe  the 
circumstances  under  which  these  objects  of  universal  pur- 
suit and  flight  have  disguised  themselves  in  one  another's 
garments. 

But  there  is  nothing  necessarily  evil  in  this  error,  and 
thus  cruelty,  envy,  revenge,  avarice,  and  the  passions 
purely  evil,  have  never  formed  any  portion  of  the  popu- 
lar imputations  on  the  lives  of  poets. 

I  have  thought  it  most  favorable  to  the  cause  of  truth 
to  set  down  these  remarks  according  to  the  order  in  which 
they  were  suggested  to  my  mind,  by  a  consideration  of 
the  subject  itself,  instead  of  observing  the  formality  of 
a  polemical  reply;  but  if  the  view  which  they  contain  be 
just,  they  will  be  found  to  involve  a  refutation  of  the 
arguers  against  poetry,  so  far  at  least  as  regards  the 
first  division  of  the  subject.  I  can  readily  conjecture 
what  should  have  moved  the  gall  of  some  learned  and 
intelligent  writers  who  quarrel  with  certain  versifiers;  I, 
like  them,  confess  myself  unwilling  to  be  stunned  by 
the  Theseids  of  the  hoarse  Codri  ^*  of  the  day.  Bavius  and 
Maevius  '*  undoubtedly  are,  as  they  ever  were,  insufferable 
persons.  But  it  belongs  to  a  philosophical  critic  to  dis- 
tinguish rather  than  confound. 

The  first  part  of  these  remarks  has  related  to  poetry 

••See  Juvenal,  8atire$,  i,  1-2:  "Am  I  never  to  retort,  being 
BO  often  bored  by  hoarse  Codrus'  Theseidf" 

"  Roman  poets  spoken  of  with  contempt  by  Virgil  (.Bclogue$, 
iii,  90). 


SHELLEY  309 

in  its  elements  and  principles;  and  it  has  been  shown,  as 
well  as  the  narrow  limits  assigned  them  would  permit,  that 
what  is  called  poetry  in  a  restricted  sense,  has  a  common 
source  with  all  other  forms  of  order  and  of  beauty  ac- 
cording to  which  the  materials  of  human  life  are  sus- 
ceptible of  being  arranged,  and  which  is  poetry  in  a  uni- 
versal sense. 

The  second  part  *°  will  have  for  its  object  an  application 
of  these  principles  to  the  present  state  of  the  cultivation 
of  poetry,  and  a  defence  of  the  attempt  to  idealize  the 
modem  forms  of  manners  and  opinions,  and  compel  them 
into  a  subordination  to  the  imaginative  and  creative  fac- 
ulty. For  the  literature  of  England,  an  energetic  de- 
velopment of  which  has  ever  preceded  or  accompanied  a 
great  and  free  development  of  the  national  will,  has  arisen 
as  it  were  from  a  new  birth.  In  spite  of  the  low- 
thoughted  envy  which  would  undervalue  contemporary 
merit,  our  own  will  be  a  memorable  age  in  intellectual 
achievements,  and  we  live  among  such  philosophers  and 
poets  as  surpass  beyond  comparison  any  who  have  ap- 
peared since  the  last  national  struggle  for  civil  and  re- 
ligious liberty.  The  most  unfailing  herald,  companion, 
and  follower  of  the  awakening  of  a  great  people  to  work 
a  beneficial  change  in  opinion  or  institution,  is  poetry. 
At  such  periods  there  is  an  accumulation  of  the  power  of 
communicating  and  receiving  intense  and  impassioned 
conceptions  respecting  man  and  nature.  The  persons  in 
whom  this  power  resides  may  often,  as  far  as  regards 
many  portions  of  their  nature,  have  little  apparent  cor- 
respondence with  that  spirit  of  good  of  which  they  are 
the  ministers.  But  even  whilst  they  deny  and  abjure, 
they  are  yet  compelled  to  serve  the  power  which  is  seated 
on  the  throne  of  their  own  soul.  It  is  impossible  to  read 
the  compositions  of  the  most  celebrated  writers  of  the 
present  day  without  being  startled  with  the  electric  life 
which  bums  within  their  words.*^  They  measure  the  cir- 
cumference and  sound  the  depths  of  human  nature  with 
a  comprehensive  and  all-penetrating  spirit,  and  they  are 
themselves  perhaps  the  most  sincerely  astonished  at  its 

*•  Never  written   (see  Introductory  note). 

*>  Compare  Keats's  sonnet,  "Great  spirits  now  on  earth  arc  so- 
journing," p.  1G7. 


310  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

manifestations;  for  it  is  less  their  spirit  than  the  spirit 
of  the  age.  Poets  are  the  hierophants  of  an  unappre- 
hended inspiration;  the  mirrors  of  the  gigantic  shadows 
■which  futurity  casts  upon  the  present;  the  words  which 
express  what  they  understand  not;  the  trumpets  which 
sing  to  battle  and  feel  not  what  they  inspire ;  the  influence 
which  is  moved  not,  but  moves.  Poets  are  the  unacknowl- 
edged legislators  of  the  world. 


POETRY,  WITH  REFERENCE  TO   ARISTOTLE'S 
"POETICS" 

John  Henry  Newman 

[First  published  in  the  London  Review,  1829;  later  included 
in  Newman's  Essays,  Critical  and  Historical.  The  present 
selection  omits  the  first  three  sections,  on  Aristotle's  view 
of  the  drama,  and  the  last  section,  on  "poetical  composition."] 

Poetry,  according  to  Aristotle,  is  a  representation  of 
the  ideal. ^  Biography  and  history  represent  individual 
characters  and  actual  facts;  poetry,  on  the  contrary,  gen- 
eralizing from  the  phenomenon  of  nature  and  life,  sup- 
plies us  with  pictures  drawn,  not  after  an  existing  pat- 
tern, but  after  a  creation  of  the  mind.  Fidelity  is  the 
primary  merit  of  biography  and  history;  the  essence  of 
poetry  is  fiction.  "Poesis  nihil  aliud  est,"  says  Bacon, 
"quam  historise  imitatio  ad  placitum."  ^  It  delineates  that 
perfection  which  the  imagination  suggests,  and  to  which 
as  a  limit  the  present  system  of  Divine  Providence 
actually  tends.  Moroever,  by  confining  the  attention  to 
one  series  of  events  and  scene  of  action,  it  bounds  and 
finishes  off  the  confused  luxuriance  of  real  nature ;  while, 
by  a  skillful  adjustment  of  circumstances,  it  brings  into 
flight  the  connection  of  cause  and  effect,  completes  the 

*  Sec  note  8  on  p.  13  and  note  3  on  p.  116. 

'  "Poetry  is  nothing  else  than  an  Imitation  of  history  for  the 
giving  of  pleasure."  {De  Aui/mentis  Hcicntiarum,  Book  li.)  Com- 
pare the  similar  passage  in  The  Advancement  of  Learning:  "The 
use  of  this  feigned  history  hath  been  to  give  some  shadow  of 
satisfaction  to  the  mind  of  man  in  those  points  wherein  the  nature 
of  things  doth  deny  it — the  world  being  in  proportion  inferior 
to  the  soul."     (Book  ii.) 


NEWMAN  311 

dependence  of  the  parts  one  on  another,  and  harmonizes 
the  proportions  of  the  whole.  It  is  then  but  the  type  and 
model  of  history  or  biography,  if  we  may  be  allowed  the 
comparison,  bearing  some  resemblance  to  the  abstract 
mathematical  formulae  of  physics,  before  they  are  modi- 
fied by  the  contingencies  of  atmosphere  and  friction. 
Hence,  while  it  recreates  the  imagination  by  the  super- 
human loveliness  of  its  views,  it  provides  a  solace  for  the 
mind  broken  by  the  disappointments  and  sufferings  of 
actual  life;  and  becomes,  moreover,  the  utterance  of  the 
inward  emotions  of  a  right  moral  feeling,  seeking  a  purity 
and  a  truth  which  this  world  will  not  give. 

It  follows  that  the  poetical  mind  is  one  full  of  the 
eternal  forms  of  beauty  and  perfection;  these  are  its 
material  of  thought,  its  instrument  and  medium  of  ob- 
servation,— these  color  each  object  to  which  it  directs  its 
view.  It  is  called  imaginative  or  creative  from  the  orig- 
inality and  independence  of  its  modes  of  thinking,  com- 
pared with  the  commonplace  and  matter-of-fact  concep- 
tions of  ordinary  minds,  which  are  fettered  down  to  the 
particular  and  individual.  At  the  same  time  it  feels  a 
natural  sympathy  with  everything  great  and  splendid  in 
the  physical  and  moral  world;  and,  selecting  such  from 
the  mass  of  common  phenomena,  incorporates  them,  as 
it  were,  into  the  substance  of  its  own  creations.  From 
living  thus  in  a  world  of  its  own,  it  speaks  the  language 
of  dignity,  emotion,  and  refinement.  Figure  is  its  nec- 
essary medium  of  communication  with  man;  for  in  the 
feebleness  of  ordinary  terms  to  express  its  ideas,  and  in 
the  absence  of  terms  of  abstract  perfection,  the  adoption 
of  metaphorical  language  is  the  only  poor  means  allowed 
it  for  imparting  to  others  its  intense  feelings.  A  met- 
rical garb  has,  in  all  languages,  been  appropriated  to 
poetry — it  is  but  the  outward  development  of  the  music 
and  harmony  within.  The  verse,  far  from  being  a  re- 
straint on  the  true  poet,  is  the  suitable  index  of  his  sense, 
and  is  adopted  by  his  free  and  deliberate  choice.  We 
shall  presently  show  the  applicability  of  our  doctrine  to 
the  various  departments  of  poetical  composition;  first, 
however,  it  will  be  right  to  volunteer  an  explanation  which 
may  save  it  from  much  misconception  and  objection.  Let 
not  our  notion  be  thought  arbitrarily  to  limit  the  number 


312  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

of  poets,  generally  considered  such.  It  will  be  found  to 
lower  particular  works,  or  parts  of  works,  rather  than 
the  authors  themselves;  sometimes  to  disparage  only  the 
vehicle  in  which  the  poetry  is  conveyed.  There  is  an 
ambiguity  in  the  word  "poetry,"  which  is  taken  to  sig- 
nify both  the  gift  itself,  and  the  written  composition 
which  is  the  result  of  it.  Thus  there  is  an  apparent,  but 
no  real  contradiction,  in  saying  a  poem  may  be  but  par- 
tially poetical ;  ^  in  some  passages  more  so  than  in  others ; 
and  sometimes  not  poetical  at  all.  We  only  maintain, 
not  that  the  writers  forfeit  the  name  of  poet  who  fail 
at  times  to  answer  to  our  requisitions,  but  that  they  are 
poets  only  so  far  forth,  and  inasmuch  as,  they  do  an- 
swer to  them.  We  may  grant,  for  instance,  that  the  vul- 
garities of  old  Phoenix  in  the  ninth  Iliad,  or  of  the  nurse 
of  Orestes  in  the  Choephoree*  are  in  themselves  unworthy 
of  their  respective  authors,  and  refer  them  to  the  wan- 
tonness of  exuberant  genius,  and  yet  maintain  that  the 
scenes  in  question  contain  much  incidental  poetry.  Now 
and  then  the  lustre  of  the  true  metal  catches  the  eye,  re- 
deeming whatever  is  unseemly  and  worthless  in  the  rude 
ore;  still  the  ore  is  not  the  metal.  Nay,  sometimes,  and 
not  unfrequently  in  Shakespeare,  the  introduction  of  un- 
poetical  matter  may  be  necessary  for  the  sake  of  relief, 
or  as  a  vivid  expression  of  recondite  conceptions,  and,  as 
it  were,  to  make  friends  with  the  reader's  imagination. 
This  necessity,  however,  cannot  make  the  additions  in 
themselves  beautiful  and  pleasing.  Sometimes,  on  the 
other  hand,  while  we  do  not  deny  the  incidental  beauty 
of  a  poem,  we  are  ashamed  and  indignant  on  witnessing 
the  unworthy  substance  in  which  that  beauty  is  imbedded. 
This  remark  applies  strongly  to  the  immoral  compositions 
to  which  Lord  Byron  devoted  his  last  years.' 

Now  to  proceed  with  our  proposed  investigation. 

1.  We  will  notice  descriptive  poetry  first.  Empedoclea 
wrote  his  physics  in  verse,  and  Oppian  his  history  of 
animals.     Neither  were  poets — the  one  was  an  historian 

■Compare  Coleridge,  p.  110,  and  Shellev,  p.  283. 
*  Iliad,  ix,  449-53;  Choephora   (of  ^schylus),  lines  736-50.     In 
both    passaKes  an   aged   person   garrulously   calls  to  mind  certain 
physical  inoonveniences  in  the  care  of  young  children. 
•  'Don  Juan  (1819-24),  and  perhaps  Cain  (1821). 


NEWMAN  313 

of  nature,  the  other  a  sort  of  biographer  of  brutes.*  Yet 
a  poet  may  make  natural  history  or  philosophy  the  ma- 
terial of  his  composition.  But  under  his  hands  they  are 
no  longer  a  bare  collection  of  facts  or  principles,  but  are 
painted  with  a  meaning,  beauty,  and  harmonious  order 
not  their  own.  Thomson  has  sometimes  been  commended 
for  the  novelty  and  minuteness  of  his  remarks  upon  na- 
ture.^ This  is  not  the  praise  of  a  poet;  whose  office  rather 
is  to  represent  known  phenomena  in  a  new  connection  or 
medium.  In  *'L' Allegro"  and  "II  Penseroso"  the  poetical 
magician  invests  the  commonest  scenes  of  a  country  life 
with  the  hues,  first  of  a  cheerful,  then  of  a  pensive  imag- 
ination. It  is  the  charm  of  the  descriptive  poetry  of  a 
religious  mind  that  nature  is  viewed  in  a  moral  connec- 
tion. Ordinary  writers,  for  instance,  compare  aged  men 
to  trees  in  autumn — a  gifted  poet  will  in  the  fading  trees 
discern  the  fading  men.*  Pastoral  poetry  is  a  descrip- 
tion of  rustics,  agriculture,  and  cattle,  softened  ofF  and 
corrected  from  the  rude  health  of  nature.  Virgil,  and 
much  more  Pope  and  others,  have  run  into  the  fault  of 
coloring  too  highly;  instead  of  drawing  generalized  and 
ideal  forms  of  shepherds,  they  have  given  us  pictures  of 
gentlemen  and  beaux.  Their  composition  may  be  poetry, 
but  it  is  not  pastoral  poetry. 

2.  The  difference  between  poetical  and  historical  narra- 
tive may  be  illustrated  by  the  Tales  Founded  on  Facts, 
generally  of  a  religious  character,  so  common  in  the  pres- 
ent day,  which  we  must  not  be  thought  to  approve  because 
we  use  them  for  our  purpose.  The  author  finds  in  the 
circumstances  of  the  case  many  particulars  too  trivial 
for  public  notice,  or  irrelevant  to  the  main  story,  or  par- 
taking too  much  of  the  peculiarity  of  individual  minds: 
these  he  omits.    He  finds  connected  events  separated  from 

•  Compare  Aristotle.  Poetics,  i :  "Even  when  a  treatise  on 
medicine  or  natural  science  is  brought  out  in  verse,  the  name  of 
poet  is  by  custom  given  to  the  author ;  and  yet  Homer  and 
Empedocles  have  nothing  in  common  but  the  meter,  so  that  it 
would  be  right  to  call  the  one  poet,  the  other  physicist."  (Batch- 
er's translation.) 

'In  The  Seatont  (1726-30). 

■Thus:  "How   quiet  shows  the  woodland   scene! 

Each  flower  and  tree,  its  duty  done. 
Reposing  in  decay  serene. 
Like  weary  men  when  age  is  won,"  etc. 

[Newman's  note.] 


314  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

each  other  by  time  or  place,  or  a  course  of  action  dis-  i 
tributed  among  a  multitude  of  agents ;  he  limits  the  scene  ^ 
or  duration  of  the  tale,  and  dispenses  with  his  host  of 
characters  by  condensing  the  mass  of  incident  and  action 
in  the  history  of  a  few.  He  compresses  long  controver- 
sies into  a  concise  argument,  and  exhibits  characters  by 
dialogue,  and  (if  such  be  his  object)  brings  prominently 
forward  the  course  of  Divine  Providence  by  a  fit  dispo- 
sition of  his  materials.  Thus  he  selects,  combines,  re- 
fines, colors, — in  fact,  poetizes.  His  facts  are  no  longer 
actual,  but  ideal;  a  tale  founded  on  facts  is  a  tale  gen- 
eralized from  facts.  The  authors  of  Peveril  of  the  Peak 
and  of  Bramhletye  Hov^e  ^  have  given  us  their  respective 
descriptions  of  the  profligate  times  of  Charles  II.  Both 
accounts  are  interesting,  but  for  different  reasons.  That 
of  the  latter  writer  has  the  fidelity  of  history;  Walter 
Scott's  picture  is  the  hideous  reality  unintentionally  soft- 
ened and  decorated  by  the  poetry  of  his  own  mind.  Miss 
Edgeworth  sometimes  apologizes  for  certain  incidents  in 
her  tales  by  stating  that  they  took  place  "by  one  of  those 
strange  chances  which  occur  in  life,  but  seem  incredible 
when  found  in  writing."  Such  an  excuse  evinces  a  mis- 
conception of  the  principle  of  fiction,  which,  being  the 
perfection  of  the  actual,  prohibits  the  introduction  of 
any  such  anomalies  of  experience.  It  is  by  a  similar  im- 
propriety that  painters  sometimes  introduce  unusual  sun- 
sets, or  other  singular  phenomena  of  lights  and  forms. 
Yet  some  of  Miss  Edgeworth's  works  contain  much  poetry 
of  narrative.  Manoeuvring  ^°  is  perfect  in  its  way, — the 
plot  and  characters  are  natural,  without  being  too  real  to  \ 
be  pleasing. 

3.  Character  is  made  poetical  by  a  like  process.  The 
writer  draws,  indeed,  from  experience;  but  unnatural  pe- 
culiarities are  laid  aside,  and  harsh  contrasts  reconciled. 
If  it  be  said  the  fidelity  of  the  imitation  is  often  its  great- 
est merit,  we  have  only  to  reply  that  in  such  cases  the 
pleasure  is  not  poetical,  but  consists  in  the  mere  recogni- 
tion. All  novels  and  tales  which  introduce  real  char- 
acters are  in  the  same  degree  unpoetical.  Portrait-paint- 
ing, to  be  poetical,  should  furnish  an  abstract  representa- 

■By  Horace  Smith  (1826). 

>o  One  of  the  Tales  of  Fashionable  Life,  1809. 


NEWMAN  Sis 

tion  of  an  individual ;  *^  the  abstraction  being  more  rigid, 
inasmuch  as  the  painting  is  confined  to  one  point  of 
time.  The  artist  should  draw  independently  of  the  ac- 
cidents of  attitude,  dress,  occasional  feeling,  and  tran- 
sient action.  He  should  depict  the  general  spirit  of  his 
subject — as  if  he  were  copying  from  memory,  not  from  a 
few  particular  sittings.  An  ordinary  painter  will  de- 
lineate with  rigid  fidelity,  and  will  make  a  caricature; 
but  the  learned  artist  contrives  so  to  temper  his  compo- 
sition as  to  sink  all  offensive  peculiarities  and  hardnesses 
of  individuality,  without  diminishing  the  striking  effect 
of  the  likeness,  or  acquainting  the  casual  spectator  with 
the  secret  of  his  art.  Miss  Edgeworth's  representations 
of  the  Irish  character  are  actual,  and  not  poetical — nor 
were  they  intended  to  be  so.  They  are  interesting,  because 
they  are  faithful.  If  there  is  poetry  about  them,  it  ex- 
ists in  the  personages  themselves,  not  in  her  representa- 
tion of  them.  She  is  only  the  accurate  reporter  in  word 
of  what  was  poetical  in  fact.  Hence,  moreover,  when  a 
deed  or  incident  is  striking  in  itself,  a  judicious  writer 
is  led  to  describe  it  in  the  most  simple  and  colorless 
terms,  his  own  being  unnecessary;  for  instance,  if  the 
greatness  of  the  action  itself  excites  the  imagination,  or 
the  depth  of  the  suffering  interests  the  feelings.  In  the 
usual  phrase,  the  circumstances  are  left  "to  speak  for 
themselves" 

Let  it  not  be  said  that  our  doctrine  is  adverse  to  that 
individuality  in  the  delineation  of  character  which  is  a 
principal  charm  of  fiction.  It  is  not  necessary  for  the 
ideality  of  a  composition  to  avoid  those  minuter  shades 
of  difference  between  man  and  man  which  give  to  poetry 
its  plausibility  and  life;  but  merely  such  violation  of 
general  nature,  such  improbabilities,  wanderings,  or 
coarsenesses,  as  interfere  with  the  refined  and  delicate  en- 
joyment of  the  imagination;  which  would  have  the  ele- 
ments of  beauty  extracted  out  of  the  confused  mutlitude 
of  ordinary  actions  and  habits,  and  combined  with  con- 
sistency and  ease.  Nor  does  it  exclude  the  introduction 
of  imperfect  or  odious  characters.  The  original  con- 
ception of  a  weak  or  guilty  mind  may  have  its  intrinsic 

"  The  leading  doctrine  of  18th  century  artists ;  see,  for  exam- 
ple, Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  Discourses  at  the  Royal  Academy. 


316  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

beauty;  and  mucli  more  so,  -when  it  is  connected  with  a 
tale  wliich  finally  adjusts  whatever  is  reprehensible  in 
the  personages  themselves.  Richard  and  lago  are  sub- 
servient to  the  plot.  Moral  excellence  in  some  characters 
may  become  even  a  fault.  The  Clytemnestra  of  Euripi- 
des ^2  is  so  interesting  that  the  divine  vengeance,  which  is 
the  main  subject  of  the  drama,  seems  almost  unjust. 
Lady  Macbeth,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  conception  of  one 
deeply  learned  in  the  poetical  art.  She  is  polluted  with 
the  most  heinous  crimes,  and  meets  the  fate  she  deserves. 
Yet  there  is  nothing  in  the  picture  to  offend  the  taste, 
and  much  to  feed  the  imagination.  Romeo  and  Juliet 
are  too  good  for  the  termination  to  which  the  plot  leads; 
so  are  Ophelia  and  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor.  In  these 
cases  there  is  something  inconsistent  with  correct  beauty, 
and  therefore  unpoetical.  We  do  not  say  the  fault  could 
be  avoided  without  sacrificing  more  than  would  be  gained ; 
still  it  is  a  fault.  It  is  scarcely  possible  for  a  poet  sat- 
isfactorily to  connect  innocence  with  ultimate  happiness, 
when  the  notion  of  a  future  life  is  excluded.  Honors 
paid  to  the  memory  of  the  dead  are  some  alleviation  of 
the  harshness.  In  his  use  of  the  doctrine  of  a  future  life, 
Southey  is  admirable.  Other  writers  are  content  to  con- 
duct their  heroes  to  temporal  happiness; — Southey  re- 
fuses to  present  comfort  to  his  Ladurlad,  Thalaba,  and 
Roderick,^^  but  carries  them  on  through  suffering  to  an- 
other world.  The  death  of  his  hero  is  the  termination 
of  the  action;  yet  so  little,  in  two  of  them,  at  least,  does 
this  catastrophe  excite  sorrowful  feelings,  that  some  read- 
ers may  be  startled  to  be  reminded  of  the  fact.  If  a 
melancholy  is  thrown  over  the  conclusion  of  the  Roder- 
ick, it  is  from  the  peculiarities  of  the  hero's  previous 
history. 

4.  Opinions,  feelings,  manners,  and  customs  are  made 
poetical  by  the  delicacy  or  splendor  with  which  they  are 
expressed.  This  is  seen  in  the  ode,  elegy,  sonnet,  and 
ballad;  in  which  a  single  idea,  perhaps,  or  familiar  oc- 
currence, is  invested  by  the  poet  with  pathos  or  dignity. 
The  ballad  of  "Old  Robin  Gray"  will  serve  for  an  in- 

'*  In  the  tragedy  of  Electro. 

^  Ladurlad  in  The  Curse  of  Kehama ;  the  others  In  epics  named 
from  the  characters  mentioned. 


NEWMAN  817 

stance,  out  of  a  multitude;  again,  Lord  Byron's  Hebrew 
Melody,  beginning  "Were  my  bosom  as  false,"  etc.;  or 
Cowper's  "Lines  on  His  Mother's  Picture";  or  Milman's 
Funeral  Hymn  in  The  Martyr  of  Antioch;  ^*  or  Milton's 
Sonnet  on  his  Blindness ;  or  Bernard  Barton's  ^*  "Dream." 
As  picturesque  specimens,  we  may  name  Campbell's  "Bat- 
tle of  the  Baltic,"  or  Joanna  Baillie's  "Chough  and 
Crow";  and  for  the  more  exalted  and  splendid  style, 
Gray's  "Bard,"  or  Milton's  "Hymn  on  the  Nativity,"  in 
which  facts  with  which  every  one  is  familiar  are  made 
new  by  the  coloring  of  a  poetical  imagination.  It  must 
all  along  be  observed  that  we  are  not  adducing  instances 
for  their  own  sake,  but  in  order  to  illustrate  our  gen- 
eral doctrine,  and  to  show  its  applicability  to  those  com- 
positions which  are  by  universal  consent  acknowledged 
to  be  poetical. 

The  department  of  poetry  we  are  now  speaking  of  is 
of  much  wider  extent  than  might  at  first  sight  appear.  It 
will  include  such  moralizing  and  philosophical  poems  as 
Young's  Night  Thoughts  and  Byron's  Childe  Harold. 
There  is  much  bad  taste,  at  present,  in  the  judgment 
passed  on  compositions  of  this  kind.  It  is  the  fault  of 
the  day  to  mistake  mere  eloquence  for  poetry ;  whereas,  in 
direct  opposition  to  the  conciseness  and  simplicity  of  the 
poet,  the  talent  of  the  orator  consists  in  making  much  of 
a  single  idea.  "Sic  dicet  ille  ut  verset  saepe  multis  modis 
eandem  et  unam  rem,  ut  haereat  in  eadem  commoreturque 
sententia."  ^*  This  is  the  great  art  of  Cicero  himself,  who, 
whether  he  is  engaged  in  statement,  argument,  or  raillery, 
never  ceases  till  he  has  exhausted  the  subject ;  going  round 
about  it,  and  placing  it  in  every  different  light,  yet  with- 
out repetition  to  offend  or  weary  the  reader.  This  fac- 
ulty seems  to  consist  in  the  power  of  throwing  off  har- 
monious verses,  which,  while  they  have  a  respectable  por- 
tion of  meaning,  yet  are  especially  intended  to  charm 
the  ear.  In  popular  poems,  common  ideas  are  unfolded 
with  copiousness,  and  set  off  in  polished  verse — and  this 
is   called  poetry.     Such   is   the  character  of   Campbell's 

'*  A  poetic  drama  published   1822. 

"A   Quaker  poet    (1784-1849). 

'•  "He  will  speak  in  such  a  way  as  often  to  turn  over  one  and 
the  same  thin^  In  many  ways,  and  to  dwell  and  remain  on  the 
same  Idea."     Cicero,  Orator,  137   (Inaccurately  quoted). 


318  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Pleasures  of  Hope;  it  is  in  his  minor  poems  that  the  au- 
thor's poetical  genius  rises  to  its  natural  elevation.  In 
Childe  Harold,  too,  the  writer  is  carried  through  his  Spen- 
serian stanza  with  the  unweariness  and  equable  fullness 
of  accomplished  eloquence;  opening,  illustrating,  and 
heightening  one  idea,  before  he  passes  on  to  another.  His 
composition  is  an  extended  funeral  sermon  over  buried 
joys  and  pleasures.  His  laments  over  Greece,  Rome,  and 
the  fallen  in  various  engagements,  have  quite  the  charac- 
ter of  panegyrical  orations;  while  by  the  very  attempt  to 
describe  the  celebrated  buildings  and  sculpture  of  an- 
tiquity, he  seems  to  confess  that  they  are  the  poetical 
text,  his  the  rhetorical  comment.  Still  it  is  a  work  of 
splendid  talent,  though,  as  a  whole,  not  of  the  highest 
poetical  excellence.  Juvenal  is  perhaps  the  only  ancient 
author  who  habitually  substitutes  declamation  for  poetry. 
5.  The  philosophy  of  mind  may  equally  be  made  sub- 
servient to  poetry,  as  the  philosophy  of  nature.  It  is  a 
common  fault  to  mistake  a  mere  knowledge  of  the  heart 
for  poetical  talent.  Our  greatest  masters  have  known  bet- 
ter;— they  have  subjected  metaphysics  to  their  art.  In 
Hamlet,  Macbeth,  Richard,  and  Othello,  the  philosophy 
of  mind  is  but  the  material  of  the  poet.  These  person- 
ages are  ideal;  they  are  effects  of  the  contact  of  a  given 
internal  character  with  given  outward  circumstances,  the 
results  of  combined  conditions  determining  (so  to  say) 
a  moral  curve  of  original  and  inimitable  properties. 
Philosophy  is  exhibited  in  the  same  subserviency  to  poetry 
in  many  parts  of  Crabbe's  Talcs  of  the  Hall.  In  the  writ- 
ings of  this  author  there  is  much  to  offend  a  refined  taste; 
but,  at  least  in  the  work  in  question,  there  is  much  of  a 
highly  poetical  cast.  It  is  a  representation  of  the  action 
and  reaction  of  two  minds  upon  each  other  and  upon  the 
world  around  them.  Two  brothers  of  different  characters 
and  fortunes,  and  strangers  to  each  other,  meet.  Their 
habits  of  mind,  the  formation  of  those  habits  by  external 
circumstances,  their  respective  media  of  judgment,  their 
points  of  mutual  attraction  and  repulsion,  the  mental 
position  of  each  in  relation  to  a  variety  of  trifling  phe- 
nomena of  everyday  nature  and  life,  are  beautifully  de- 
veloped in  a  series  of  tales  moulded  into  a  connected  nar- 
rative.   We  are  tempted  to  single  out  the  fourth  book, 


NEWMAN  31^ 

whicli  gives  an  account  of  the  childhood  and  education 
of  the  younger  brother,  and  which,  for  variety  of  thought 
38  wfeU  as  fidelity  of  description,  is  in  our  judgment  be- 
yond praise.  The  Waverley  Novels  would  afford  us  speci- 
mens of  a  similar  excellence.  One  striking  peculiarity  of 
these  tales  is  the  author's  practice  of  describing  a  group 
of  characters  bearing  the  same  general  features  of  mind, 
and  placed  in  the  same  general  circumstances,  yet  so  con- 
trasted with  each  other  in  minute  differences  of  mental 
constitution,  that  each  diverges  from  the  common  starting- 
point  into  a  path  peculiar  to  himself.  The  brotherhood 
of  villains  in  Kenilworth,  of  knights  in  Ivanhoe,  and  of 
enthusiasts  in  Old  Mortality,  are  instances  of  this.  This 
bearing  of  character  and  plot  on  each  other  is  not  often 
found  in  Byron's  poems.  The  Corsair  is  intended  for  a 
remarkable  personage.  We  pass  by  the  inconsistencies  of 
his  character,  considered  by  itself.  The  grand  fault  is 
that,  whether  it  be  natural  or  not,  we  are  obliged  to  accept 
the  author's  word  for  the  fidelity  of  his  portrait.  We 
are  told,  not  shown,  what  the  hero  was.  There  is  noth- 
ing in  the  plot  which  results  from  his  peculiar  formation 
of  mind.  An  everyday  bravo  might  equally  well  have 
satisfied  the  requirements  of  the  action.  Childe  Harold, 
again,  if  he  is  anything,  is  a  being  professedly  isolated 
from  the  world,  and  uninfluenced  by  it.  One  might  as 
well  draw  Tityrus's  stags  grazing  in  the  air,^^  as  a  char- 
acter of  this  kind;  which  yet,  with  more  or  less  altera- 
tion, passes  through  successive  editions  in  his  other 
poems.  Byron  had  very  little  versatility  or  elasticity  of 
genius;  he  did  not  know  how  to  make  poetry  out  of  ex- 
isting materials.  He  declaims  in  his  own  way,  and  has 
the  upper  hand  as  long  as  he  is  allowed  to  go  on;  but,  if 
interrogated  on  principles  of  nature  and  good  sense,  he 
is  at  once  put  out  and  brought  to  a  stand.  Yet  his  con- 
ception of  Sardanapalus  and  Myrrha  ^®  is  fine  and  ideal, 
and  in  the  style  of  excellence  which  we  have  just  been 
admiring  in  Shakespeare  and  Scott. 

These  illustrations  of  Aristotle's  doctrine  may  suffice. 

Now  let  us  proceed  to  a  fresh  position ;  which,  as  before, 

"  See    Vergil,    Eclogues.   1,    59 :      "The    nimble    stags    shall    feed 
io  the  air  .  .  .  sooner  tnan  my  look  shall  pass  from  his  heart." 
**  In  the  tragedy  of  Sardanapalus. 


320  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

shall  first  be  broadly  stated,  then  modified  and  explained. 
How  does  originality  differ  from  the  poetical  talent! 
Without  affecting  the  accuracy  of  a  definition,  we  may 
call  the  latter  the  originality  of  right  moral  feeling. 

Originality  may  perhaps  be  defined  the  power  of  ab- 
stracting for  one's  self,  and  is  in  thought  what  strength 
of  mind  is  in  action.  Our  opinions  are  commonly  de- 
rived from  education  and  society.  Common  minds  trans- 
mit as  they  receive,  good  and  bad,  true  and  false;  minds 
of  original  talent  feel  a  continual  propensity  to  inves- 
tigate subjects  and  strike  out  views  for  themselves;  so 
that  even  old  and  established  truths  do  not  escape  modi- 
fication and  accidental  change  when  subjected  to  this 
process  of  mental  digestion.  Even  the  style  of  original 
writers  is  stamped  with  the  peculiarities  of  their  minds. 
When  originality  is  found  apart  from  good  sense,  which 
more  or  less  is  frequently  the  case,  it  shows  itself  in  para- 
dox and  rashness  of  sentiment,  and  eccentricity  of  out- 
ward conduct.  Poetry,  on  the  other  hand,  cannot  be 
separated  from  its  good  sense,  or  taste,  as  it  is  called; 
■which  is  one  of  its  elements.  It  is  originality  energizing 
in  the  world  of  beauty;  the  originality  of  grace,  purity, 
refinement,  and  good  feeling.  We  do  not  hesitate  to  say 
that  poetry  is  ultimately  founded  on  correct  moral  per- 
ception; that  where  there  is  no  sound  principle  in  ex- 
ercise there  will  be  no  poetry;  and  that  on  the  whole 
(originality  being  granted)  in  proportion  to  the  standard 
of  a  writer's  moral  character  will  his  compositions  vary 
in  poetical  excellence.^*  This  position,  however,  requires 
some  explanation. 

Of  course,  then,  we  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  a  poet 
must  necessarily  display  virtuous  and  religious  feeling; 
we  are  not  speaking  of  the  actual  material  of  poetry,  but 
of  its  sources.  A  right  moral  state  of  heart  is  the  formal 
and  scientific  condition  of  a  poetical  mind.  Nor  does  it 
follow  from  our  position  that  every  poet  must  in  fact  be 
a  man  of  consistent  and  practical  principle;  except  so 
far  as  good  feeling  commonly  produces  or  results  from 
good  practice.  Burns  was  a  man  of  inconsistent  life; 
still,  it  is  known,  of  much  really  sound  principle  at  bot- 

"  Compare  Shelley,  p.  307. 


NEWMAN  821 

torn.  Thus  his  acknowledged  poetical  talent  is  in  no  wise 
inconsistent  with  the  truth  of  our  doctrine,  which  will 
refer  the  beauty  which  exists  in  his  compositions  to  the 
remains  of  a  virtuous  and  diviner  nature  within  him. 
Nay,  further  than  this,  our  theory  holds  good,  even  though 
it  be  shown  that  a  depraved  man  may  write  a  poem.  As 
motives  short  of  the  purest  lead  to  actions  intrinsically 
good,  so  frames  of  mind  short  of  virtuous  will  produce 
a  partial  and  limited  poetry.  But  even  where  this  is  in- 
stanced, the  poetry  of  a  vicious  mind  will  be  inconsistent 
and  debased;  that  is,  so  far  only  poetry  as  the  traces  and 
shadows  of  holy  truth  still  remain  upon  it.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  right  moral  feeling  places  the  mind  in  the  very 
center  of  that  circle  from  which  all  the  rays  have  their 
origin  and  range;  whereas  minds  otherwise  placed  com- 
mand but  a  portion  of  the  whole  circuit  of  poetry.  Al- 
lowing for  human  infirmity  and  the  varieties  of  opinion, 
Milton,  Spenser,  Cowper,  Wordsworth,  and  Southey  may 
be  considered,  as  far  as  their  writings  go,  to  approxi- 
mate to  this  moral  center.  The  following  are  added  as 
further  illustrations  of  our  meaning.  Walter  Scott's  cen- 
ter is  chivalrous  honor;  Shakespeare  exhibits  the  charac- 
teristics of  an  unlearned  and  undisciplined  piety;  Homer 
the  religion  of  nature  and  conscience,  at  times  debased  by 
polytheism.  All  these  poets  are  religious.  The  occasional 
irreligion  of  Virgil's  poetry  is  painful  to  the  admirers 
of  his  general  taste  and  delicacy.  Dryden's  "Alexander's 
Feast"  is  a  magnificent  composition,  and  has  high  poetical 
beauties;  but  to  a  refined  judgment  there  is  something 
intrinsically  unpoetical  in  the  end  to  which  it  is  devoted, 
the  praises  of  revel  and  sensuality.  It  corresponds  to  a 
process  of  clever  reasoning  erected  on  an  untrue  founda- 
tion— the  one  is  a  fallacy,  the  other  is  out  of  taste.  Lord 
Byron's  Manfred  is  in  parts  intensely  poetical;  yet  the 
delicate  mind  naturally  shrinks  from  the  spirit  which 
here  and  there  reveals  itself,  and  the  basis  on  which  the 
drama  is  built.  From  a  perusal  of  it  we  should  infer, 
according  to  the  above  theory,  that  there  was  right  and 
fine  feeling  in  the  poet's  mind,  but  that  the  central  and 
consistent  character  was  wanting.  From  the  history  of 
his  life  we  know  this  to  be  the  fact.  The  connection 
between  want  of  the  religious  principle  and  want  of  po- 


322  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

etical  feeling  is  seen  in  the  instances  of  Hume  and  Gib- 
bon, "who  had  radically  unpoetical  minds.  Rousseau,  it 
may  be  supposed,  is  an  exception  to  our  doctrine.  Lu- 
cretius, too,  had  great  poetical  genius;  but  his  work 
evinces  that  his  miserable  philosophy  was  rather  the  re- 
sult of  a  bewildered  judgment  than  a  corrupt  heart.^" 

According  to  the  above  theory,  revealed  religion  should 
be  especially  poetical — and  it  is  so  in  fact.  While  its 
disclosures  have  an  originality  in  them  to  engage  the 
intellect,  they  have  a  beauty  to  satisfy  the  moral  nature. 
It  presents  us  with  those  ideal  forms  of  excellence  on 
which  a  poetical  mind  delights,  and  with  which  all  grace 
and  harmony  are  associated.  It  brings  us  into  a  new 
world — a  world  of  overpowering  interest,  of  the  sublimest 
views  and  the  tenderest  and  purest  feelings.  The  pe- 
culiar grace  of  mind  of  the  New  Testament  writers  is  as 
striking  as  the  actual  effect  produced  upon  the  hearts  of 
those  who  have  imbibed  their  spirit.  At  present  we  are 
not  concerned  with  the  practical,  but  the  poetical,  nature 
of  revealed  truth.  With  Christians,  a  poetical  view  of 
things  is  a  duty, — we  are  bid  to  color  all  things  with  hues 
of  faith,  to  see  a  divine  meaning  in  every  event,  and  a 
superhuman  tendency.  Even  our  friends  around  are  in- 
vested with  unearthly  brightness — no  longer  imperfect 
men,  but  beings  taken  into  divine  favor,  stamped  with 
His  seal,  and  in  training  for  future  happiness.  It  may 
be  added  that  the  virtues  peculiarly  Christian  are  espe- 
cially poetical  ^^ — ^meekness,  gentleness,  compassion,  con- 
tentment, modesty,  not  to  mention  the  devotional  vir- 
tues; whereas  the  ruder  and  more  ordinary  feelings  are 
the  instruments  of  rhetoric  more  justly  than  of  poetry, 
— anger,  indignation,  emulation,  martial  spirit,  and  love 
of  independence. 

"Compare  Byron,  p.  269. 

"  Compare  Ruskin's  saying  that  poetry  presents  "noble  grounds 
for  the  noble  emotions,"  especially  "love,  veneration,  admiration, 
and  Joy."     (Jfodem  Fainter$,  Part  Iv.) 


DE  QtriNCEY  323 


ON  THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  GATE  IN 
"MACBETH" 

Thomas  De  Quincey 

[First  published  in  the  London  Magazine  for  October,  1823.] 

From  my  boyish  days  I  had  always  felt  a  great  per- 
plexity on  one  point  in  Macbeth,  It  was  this: — the 
knocking  at  the  gate  which  succeeds  to  the  murder  of 
Duncan  ^  produced  to  my  feelings  an  effect  for  which  I 
never  could  account.  The  effect  was  that  it  reflected 
back  upon  the  murderer  a  peculiar  awfulness  and  a  depth 
of  solemnity;  yet,  however  obstinately  I  endeavored  with 
my  understanding  to  comprehend  this,  for  many  years 
I  never  could  see  why  it  should  produce  such  an  effect. 

Here  I  pause  for  one  moment  to  exhort  the  reader  never 
to  pay  any  attention  to  his  understanding  when  it  stands 
in  opposition  to  any  other  faculty  of  his  mind.  The 
mere  understanding,  however  useful  and  indispensable,  is 
the  meanest  faculty  in  the  human  mind  and  the  most  to 
be  distrusted ;  ^  and  yet  the  great  majority  of  people  trust 
to  nothing  else, — which  may  do  for  ordinary  life,  but  not 
for  philosophical  purposes.  Of  this,  out  of  ten  thousand 
instances  that  I  might  produce,  I  will  cite  one.  Ask  of 
any  person  whatsoever  who  is  not  previously  prepared 
for  the  demand  by  a  knowledge  of  perspective,  to  draw 
in  the  rudest  way  the  commonest  appearance  which  de- 
pends upon  the  laws  of  that  science — as,  for  instance,  to 
represent  the  effect  of  two  walls  standing  at  right  angles 
to  each  other,  or  the  appearance  of  the  houses  on  each 
side  of  a  street,  as  seen  by  a  person  looking  down  the 
street  from  one  extremity.  Now,  in  all  cases,  unless  the 
person  has  happened  to  observe  in  pictures  how  it  is  that 
artists  produce  these  effects,  he  will  be  utterly  unable  to 
make  the  smallest  approximation  to  it.  Yet  why?  For 
he  has  actually  seen  the  effect  every  day  of  his  life.  The 
reason  is  that  he  allows  his  understanding  to  overrule  his 
eyes.    His   understanding,   which   includes   no    intuitive 

'II,  11,  58-74. 

*  See  comment  on  this  passage  In  the  Introduction,  p.  xxi. 


324  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

knowledge  of  the  laws  of  vision,  can  furnish  him  with  no 
reason  why  a  line  which  is  known  and  can  be  proved  to 
be  a  horizontal  line  should  not  appear  a  horizontal  line; 
a  line  that  made  any  angle  with  the  perpendicular  less 
than  a  right  angle  would  seem  to  him  to  indicate  that 
his  houses  were  all  tumbling  down  together.  Accord- 
ingly he  makes  the  line  of  his  houses  a  horizontal  line, 
and  fails  of  course  to  produce  the  effect  demanded.  Here 
then  is  one  instance  out  of  many,  in  which  not  only  the 
understanding  is  allowed  to  overrule  the  eyes,  but  where 
the  understanding  is  positively  allowed  to  obliterate  the 
eyes,  as  it  were;  for  not  only  does  the  man  believe  the 
evidence  of  his  understanding  in  opposition  to  that  of 
his  eyes,  but  (what  is  monstrous)  the  idiot  is  not  aware 
that  his  eyes  ever  gave  such  evidence.  He  does  not  know 
that  he  has  seen  (and  therefore  qiioad  his  consciousness 
has  not  seen)  that  which  he  has  seen  every  day  of  his 
life. 

But  to  return  from  this  digression.  My  understand- 
ing could  furnish  no  reason  why  the  knocking  at  the 
gate  in  Macbeth  should  produce  any  effect,  direct  or  re- 
flected. In  fact,  my  understanding  said  positively  that 
it  could  not  produce  any  effect.  But  I  knew  better;  I 
felt  that  it  did;  and  I  waited  and  clung  to  the  problem 
until  further  knowledge  should  enable  me  to  solve  it.  At 
length,  in  1812,  Mr.  Williams  made  his  dehut  on  the  stage 
of  Eatcliffe  Highway,  and  executed  those  unparalleled 
murders  which  have  procured  for  him  such  a  brilliant  and 
undying  reputation.^  On  which  murders,  by  the  way,  I 
must  observe,  that  in  one  respect  they  have  had  an  ill 
effect,  by  making  the  connoisseur  in  murder  very  fastidi- 
ous in  his  taste,  and  dissatisfied  with  anything  that  has 
been  since  done  in  that  line.  All  other  murders  look 
pale  by  the  deep  crimson  of  his;  and,  as  an  amateur  once 
said  to  me  in  a  querulous  tone,  "There  has  been  abso- 
lutely nothing  doing  since  his  time,  or  nothing  that's 
worth  speaking  of."  But  this  is  wrong,  for  it  is  unrea- 
sonable to  expect  all  men  to  be  great  artists,  and  bom 

*  This  quizzical  passage  represents  a  kind  of  permanent,  gro- 
tesque Joke  of  De  Quincey's, — his  profession  to  be  a  connoisseur 
In  the  art  of  murder, — which  finds  its  most  elaborate  expression 
In  his  essays  "On  Murder  as  one  of  the  Fine  Arts." 


DE  QUINCEY  325 

with  the  genius  of  Mr.  Williams.  Now  it  will  be  re- 
membered that  in  the  first  of  these  murders  (that  of  the 
Marrs)  the  same  incident  (of  a  knocking  at  the  door  soon 
after  the  work  of  extermination  was  complete)  did  actually 
occur  which  the  genius  of  Shakespeare  has  invented ;  and 
all  good  judges,  and  the  most  eminent  dilettanti,  acknowl- 
edged the  felicity  of  Shakespeare's  suggestion  as  soon  as 
it  was  actually  realized.  Here,  then,  was  a  fresh  proof 
that  I  had  been  right  in  relying  on  my  own  feeling  in 
opposition  to  my  understanding;  and  again  I  set  myself 
to  study  the  problem.  At  length  I  solved  it  to  my  own 
satisfaction;  and  my  solution  is  this: — Murder,  in  ordi- 
nary cases,  where  the  sympathy  is  wholly  directed  to  the 
case  of  the  murdered  person,  is  an  incident  of  coarse  and 
vulgar  horror;  and  for  this  reason, — that  it  flings  the  in- 
terest exclusively  upon  the  natural  but  ignoble  instinct  by 
which  we  cleave  to  life;  an  instinct  which,  as  being  in- 
dispensable to  the  primal  law  of  self-preservation,  is  the 
same  in  kind  (though  different  in  degree)  amongst  all 
living  creatures.  This  instinct,  therefore,  because  it  an- 
nihilates all  distinctions,  and  degrades  the  greatest  of 
men  to  the  level  of  "the  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  on,"  ex- 
hibits human  nature  in  its  most  abject  and  humiliating 
attitude.  Such  an  attitude  would  little  suit  the  pur- 
poses of  the  poet.  What  then  must  he  do?  He  must 
throw  the  interest  on  the  murderer.  Our  sympathy  must 
be  with  him  (of  course  I  mean  a  sympathy  of  comprehen- 
sion, a  sympathy  by  which  we  enter  into  his  feelings,  and 
are  made  to  understand  them — not  a  sympathy  of  pity 
or  approbation).*  In  the  murdered  person  all  strife  of 
thought,  all  flux  and  reflux  of  passion  and  of  purpose,  are 
crushed  by  one  overwhelming  panic;  the  fear  of  instant 
death  smites  him  "with  its  petrific  mace."  But  in  the 
murderer,  such  a  murderer  as  a  poet  will  condescend  to, 

*  It  seems  almost  ludicrous  to  guard  and  explain  my  use  of  a 
word  in  a  situation  where  it  would  naturally  explain  Itself.  But 
It  has  become  necessary  to  do  so,  in  consequence  of  the  unscholar- 
llke  use  of  the  word  sympathy,  at  present .  so  general,  by  which, 
instead  of  taking  it  in  its  proper  sense,  as  the  act  of  reproduc- 
ing in  our  minds  the  feelings  of  another,  whether  for  hatred,  in- 
dignation, love,  pity,  or  approbation,  it  is  made  a  mere  synonym 
of  the  word  pit  if ;  and  hence,  instead  of  saying,  "sympathy  tcith 
another,"  many  writers  adopt  the  monstrous  barbarism  of  "sym- 
pathy for  another."     [De  Quincey's  note.] 


826  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

there  must  be  raging  some  great  storm  of  passion — jeal- 
ousy, ambition,  vengeance,  hatred — which  will  create  a 
hell  within  him;  and  into  this  hell  we  are  to  look. 

In  Macbeth,  for  the  sake  of  gratifying  his  now  enor- 
mous and  teeming  faculty  of  creation,  Shakespeare  has 
introduced  two  murderers;  and,  as  usual  in  his  hands, 
they  are  remarkably  discriminated;  but — though  in  Mac- 
beth the  strife  of  mind  is  greater  than  in  his  wife,  the 
tiger  spirit  not  so  awake,  and  his  feelings  caught  chiefly 
by  contagion  from  her — ^yet,  as  both  were  finally  involved 
in  the  guilt  of  murder,  the  murderous  mind  of  necessity 
is  finally  to  be  presumed  in  both.  This  was  to  be  ex- 
pressed; and  on  its  own  account,  as  well  as  to  make  it  a 
more  proportionable  antagonist  to  the  unofFending  nature 
of  their  victim,  "the  gracious  Duncan,"  and  adequately 
to  expound  "the  deep  damnation  of  his  taking  oJ0F,"  this 
was  to  be  expressed  with  peculiar  energy.  We  were  to 
be  made  to  feel  that  the  human  nature — i.e.,  the  divine 
nature  of  love  and  mercy,  spread  through  the  hearts  of 
all  creatures,  and  seldom  utterly  withdrawn  from  man — 
was  gone,  vanished,  extinct,  and  that  the  fiendish  nature 
had  taken  its  place.  And,  as  this  effect  is  marvelously 
accomplished  in  the  dialogues  and  soliloquies  themselves, 
80  it  is  finally  consummated  by  the  expedient  under  con- 
sideration; and  it  is  to  this  that  I  now  solicit  the  read- 
er's attention.  If  the  reader  has  ever  witnessed  a  wife, 
daughter,  or  sister,  in  a  fainting  fit,  he  may  chance  to 
have  observed  that  the  most  affecting  moment  in  such  a 
spectacle  is  that  in  which  a  sigh  and  a  stirring  announce 
the  recommencement  of  suspended  life.  Or,  if  the  reader 
has  ever  been  present  in  a  vast  metropolis  on  the  day 
when  some  great  national  idol  was  carried  in  funeral 
pomp  to  his  grave,  and,  chancing  to  walk  near  the  course 
through  which  it  passed,  has  felt  powerfully,  in  the  si- 
lence and  desertion  of  the  streets  and  in  the  stagnation 
of  ordinary  business,  the  deep  interest  which  at  that  mo- 
ment was  possessing  the  heart  of  man, — if  all  at  once  he 
should  hear  the  death-like  stillness  broken  up  by  the  sound 
of  wheels  rattling  away  from  the  scene,  and  making 
known  that  the  transitory  vision  was  dissolved,  he  will 
be  aware  that  at  no  moment  was  his  sense  of  the  com- 
plete suspension  and  pause  in  ordinary  human  concerns 


DE  QUINCEY  327 

80  full  and  affecting  as  at  that  moment  when  the  ana- 
pension  ceases,  and  the  goings-on  of  human  life  are  sud- 
denly resumed.  All  action  in  any  direction  is  beat  ex- 
pounded, measured,  and  made  apprehensible,  by  reaction. 
Now  apply  this  to  the  case  in  Macbeth.  Here,  as  I  have 
said,  the  retiring  of  the  human  heart  and  the  entrance 
of  the  fiendish  heart  was  to  be  expressed  and  made  sen- 
sible. Another  world  has  stepped  in;  and  the  murder- 
ers are  taken  out  of  the  region  of  human  things,  human 
purposes,  human  desires.  They  are  transfigured:  Lady 
Macbeth  is  "unsexed";  Macbeth  has  forgot  that  he  was 
bom  of  woman ;  both  are  conformed  to  the  image  of  dev- 
ils; and  the  world  of  devils  is  suddenly  revealed.  But 
how  shall  this  be  conveyed  and  made  palpable?  In  order 
that  a  new  world  may  step  in,  this  world  must  for  a 
time  disappear.  The  murderers,  and  the  murder,  must 
be  insulated — cut  off  by  an  immeasurable  gulf  from  the 
ordinary  tide  and  succession  of  human  affairs — locked  up 
and  sequestered  in  some  deep  recess;  we  must  be  made 
sensible  that  the  world  of  ordinary  life  is  suddenly  ar- 
rested— ^laid  asleep — tranced — racked  into  a  dread  armis- 
tice; time  must  be  annihilated,  relation  to  things  without 
abolished;  and  all  must  pass  self-withdrawn  into  a  deep 
syncope  and  suspension  of  earthly  passion.  Hence  it  is 
that,  when  the  deed  is  done,  when  the  work  of  darkness 
is  perfect,  then  the  world  of  darkness  passes  away  like 
a  pageantry  in  the  clouds:  the  knocking  at  the  gate  is 
heard,  and  it  makes  known  audibly  that  the  reaction  has 
commenced;  the  human  has  made  its  reflux  upon  the 
fiendish;  the  pulses  of  life  are  beginning  to  beat  again; 
and  the  reestablishment  of  the  goings-on  of  the  world  in 
which  we  live  first  makes  us  profoundly  sensible  of  the 
awful  parenthesis  that  had  suspended  them. 

O  mighty  poet!  Thy  works  are  not  as  those  of  other 
men,  simply  and  merely  great  works  of  art,  but  are  also 
like  the  phenomena  of  nature,  like  the  sun  and  the  sea, 
the  stars  and  the  flowers,  like  frost  and  snow,  rain  and 
dew,  hail-storm  and  thunder,  which  are  to  be  studied  with 
entire  submission  of  our  own  faculties,  and  in  the  per- 
fect faith  that  in  them  there  can  be  no  too  much  or  too 
little,  nothing  useless  or  inert,  but  that,  the  farther  we 
press  in  our  discoveries,  the  more  we  shall  see  proofs  of 


828  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

design  and  self-supporting  arrangement  where  the  care- 
Jess  eye  had  seen  nothing  but  accident! 


ON  WORDSWORTH'S  POETRY 

Thomas  De  Quince y 

[First  published  in  Tait's  Magazine  for  September,  1845, 
two  years  after  Wordsworth  had  become  Poet  Laureate.  The 
opening  paragraphs  are  omitted,  as  they  served  only  to  con- 
nect the  essay  with  others  which  had  preceded  it.] 

Amongst  all  works  that  have  illustrated  our  age, 
none  can  more  deserve  an  earnest  notice  than  those  of 
the  Laureate;  and  on  some  grounds,  peculiar  to  them- 
selves, none  so  much.  Their  merit  in  fact  is  not  only 
supreme,  but  unique;  not  only  supreme  in  their  general 
class,  but  unique  as  in  a  class  of  their  own.  And  there 
is  a  challenge  of  a  separate  nature  to  the  curiosity  of  the 
readers  in  the  remarkable  contrast  between  the  first  stage 
of  Wordsworth's  acceptation  with  the  public  and  that 
which  he  enjoys  at  present. 

One  original  obstacle  to  the  favorable  impression  of  the 
Wordsworthian  poetry,  and  an  obstacle  purely  self-created, 
was  his  theory  of  Poetic  Diction.  The  diction  itself,  with- 
out the  theory,  was  of  less  consequence;  for  the  mass  of 
readers  would  have  been  too  blind  or  too  careless  to  no- 
tice it.  But  the  preface  to  the  second  edition  of  his 
Poems  (2  vols.,  1799-1800)  compelled  all  readers  to  notice 
it.  Nothing  more  injudicious  was  ever  done  by  man. 
An  unpopular  truth  would,  at  any  rate,  have  been  a  bad 
inauguration  for  what,  on  other  accounts,  the  author  had 
announced  as  "an  experiment."  His  poetry  was  already, 
and  confessedly,  an  experiment  as  regarded  the  quality 
of  the  subjects  selected,  and  as  regarded  the  mode  of  treat- 
ing them.  That  was  surely  trial  enough  for  the  reader's 
untrained  sensibilities,  without  the  unpopular  novelty  be- 
sides as  to  the  quality  of  the  diction.  But,  in  the  mean- 
time, this  novelty,  besides  being  unpopular,  was  also  in 
part  false;  it  was  true,  and  it  was  not  true.  And  it  was 
not  true  in  a  double  way.     Stating  broadly,  and  allowing 


DE  QUINCEY  329 

it  to  be  taken  for  his  meaning,  that  the  diction  of  ordi- 
nary life  (in  his  own  words,  "the  very  language  of  men") 
was  the  proper  diction  for  poetry,  the  writer  meant  no 
such  thing;  for  only  a  part  of  this  diction,  according  to 
his  own  subsequent  restriction,  was  available  for  such  a 
use.  And,  secondly,  as  his  own  subsequent  practice 
showed,  even  this  part  was  available  only  for  peculiar 
classes  of  poetry.  In  his  own  exquisite  "Laodamia,"  in 
his  Sonnets,  in  his  Excursion,  few  are  his  obligations  to 
the  idiomatic  language  of  life,  as  distinguished  from  that 
of  books,  or  of  prescriptive  usage.  Coleridge  remarked, 
justly,  that  the  Excursion  bristles  beyond  most  poems  with 
what  are  called  "dictionary"  words, — that  is,  polysyllabic 
words  of  Latin  or  Greek  origin.  And  so  it  must  ever  be 
in  meditative  poetry  upon  solemn  philosophic  themes. 
The  gamut  of  ideas  needs  a  corresponding  gamut  of  ex- 
pressions; the  scale  of  the  thinking  which  ranges  through 
every  key  exacts,  for  the  artist,  an  unlimited  command 
over  the  entire  scale  of  the  instrument  which  he  employs. 
Never,  in  fact,  was  there  a  more  erroneous  direction — one 
falser  in  its  grounds,  or  more  ruinous  in  its  tendency — 
than  that  given  by  a  modern  Rector  of  Glasgow  Univer- 
sity ^  to  the  students, — viz.,  that  they  should  cultivate  the 
Saxon  part  of  our  language  rather  than  the  Latin  part. 
Nonsense.  Both  are  indispensable;  and,  speaking  gener- 
ally, without  stopping  to  distinguish  as  to  subjects,  both 
are  equally  indispensable.  Pathos,  in  situations  which  are 
homely,  or  at  all  connected  with  domestic  affections,  natu- 
rally moves  by  Saxon  words.  Lyrical  emotion  of  every 
kind,  which  (to  merit  the  name  lyrical)  must  be  in  the 
state  of  flux  and  reflux,  or,  generally,  of  agitation,  also  re- 
quires the  Saxon  element  of  our  language.  And  why  ?  Be- 
cause the  Saxon  is  the  aboriginal  element, — the  basis,  and 
not  the  superstructure;  consequently  it  comprehends  all  the 
ideas  which  are  natural  to  the  heart  of  man,  and  to  the 
elementary  situations  of  life.  And,  although  the  Latin 
often  furnishes  us  with  duplicates  of  these  ideas,  yet  the 
Saxon,  or  monosyllabic  part,  has  the  advantage  of  prece- 
dency in  our  use  and  knowledge;  for  it  is  the  language 
of  the  nursery,  whether  for  rich  or  poor, — in  which  great 

'  Lord  Brougham. 


m  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

philological  academy  no  toleration  is  given  to  words  in 
-osity  or  -ation.  There  is,  therefore,  a  great  advantage, 
as  regards  the  consecration  to  our  feelings,  settled,  by 
usage  and  custom,  upon  the  Saxon  strands  in  the  mixed 
yarn  of  our  native  tongue.  And,  universally,  this  may 
be  remarked — that,  wherever  the  passion  of  a  poem  is  of 
that  sort  which  uses,  presumes,  or  postulates  the  ideas, 
without  seeking  to  extend  them,  Saxon  will  be  the 
"cocoon"  (to  speak  by  the  language  applied  to  silkworms) 
which  the  poem  spins  for  itself.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
where  the  motion  of  the  feeling  is  hy  and  through  the 
ideas,  where  (as  in  religious  or  meditative  poetry — 
Young's,  for  instance,  or  Cowper's)  the  sentiment  creeps 
and  kindles  underneath  the  very  tissues  of  the  thinking, 
there  the  Latin  will  predominate;  and  so  much  so  that, 
whilst  the  flesh,  the  blood,  and  the  muscle  will  be  often 
almost  exclusively  Latin,  the  articulations  or  hinges  of 
connection  and  transition  will  be  Anglo-Saxon. 

But  a  blunder,  more  perhaps  from  thoughtlessness  and 
careless  reading  than  from  malice,  on  the  part  of  the 
professional  critics,  ought  to  have  roused  Wordsworth 
into  a  firmer  feeling  of  the  entire  question.  These  critics 
had  fancied  that,  in  Wordsworth's  estimate,  whatsoever 
was  plebeian  was  also  poetically  just  in  diction — not  as 
though  the  impassioned  phrase  were  sometimes  the  ver- 
nacular phrase,  but  as  though  the  vernacular  phrase  were  • 
universally  the  impassioned.  They  naturally  went  on  to 
suggest,  as  a  corollary  which  Wordsworth  (as  they  fan- 
cied) could  not  refuse,  that  Dryden  and  Pope  must  be 
translated  into  the  flash  diction  of  prisons  and  the  slang 
of  streets  before  they  could  be  regarded  as  poetically  cos- 
tumed. Now,  so  far  as  these  critics  were  concerned,  the 
answer  would  have  been  simply  to  say  that  much  in  the 
poets  mentioned,  but  especially  of  the  racy  Dryden,  actu- 
ally is  in  that  vernacular  diction  for  which  Wordsworth 
contended,  and,  for  the  other  part,  which  is  not,  fre- 
quently it  does  require  the  very  purgation  (if  that  were 
possible)  which  the  critics  were  presuming  to  be  so  ab- 
surd. In  Pope,  and  sometimes  in  Dryden,  there  is  so 
much  of  the  unfeeling  and  the  prescriptive  diction  which 
Wordsworth  denounced.  During  the  eighty  years  be- 
tween 1660  and  1740  grew  up  that  scrofulous  taint  in 


DE  QUINCEY  331 

our  diction  which  was  denounced  by  Wordsworth  as 
technically  received  for  "poetic  language";  and,  if  Dry- 
den  and  Pope  were  less  infected  than  others,  this  was 
merely  because  their  understandings  were  finer.  Much 
there  is  in  both  poets,  as  regards  diction,  which  does 
require  correction,  and  correction  of  the  kind  presumed 
by  Wordsworth's  theory.  And  if,  so  far,  the  critics  should 
resist  Wordsworth's  principle  of  reform,  not  he,  but  they, 
would  have  been  found  the  patrons  of  deformity.  This 
course  would  soon  have  turned  the  tables  upon  the  critics. 
For  the  poets,  or  the  class  of  poets,  whom  they  unwisely 
selected  as  models  susceptible  of  no  correction,  happen 
to  be  those  who  chiefly  require  it.  But  their  foolish  se- 
lection ought  not  to  have  intercepted  or  clouded  the  true 
question  when  put  in  another  shape,  since  in  this  shape 
it  opens  into  a  very  troublesome  dilemma.  Spenser, 
Shakespeare,  the  Bible  of  1611,  and  Milton — how  say  you, 
William  Wordsworth — are  these  sound  and  true  as  to 
diction,  or  are  they  not?  If  you  say  they  are,  then  what 
is  it  that  you  are  proposing  to  change?  What  room  for 
a  revolution?  Would  you,  as  Sancho  says,  have  "better 
bread  than  is  made  of  wheat"  ?  But,  if  you  say  No,  they 
are  not  sound,  then,  indeed,  you  open  a  fearful  range  to 
your  own  artillery,  but  in  a  war  greater  than  you  could, 
by  any  possibility,  have  contemplated.  In  the  first  case, 
— that  is,  if  the  leading  classics  of  the  English  literature 
are,  in  quality  of  diction  and  style,  loyal  to  the  canons 
of  sound  taste, — then  you  cut  away  the  locus  standi  for 
yourself  as  a  reformer:  the  reformation  applies  only  to 
secondary  and  recent  abuses.  In  the  second  case,  if  they 
also  are  faulty,  you  undertake  an  onus  of  hostility  so  vast 
that  you  will  be  found  fighting  against  stars.*  .  .  . 

It  is  the  vulgar  superstition  in  behalf  of  big  books  and 
sounding  pretensions  that  must  have  prevailed  upon  Cole- 
ridge and  others  to  undervalue,  by  comparison  with  the 
direct  philosophic  poetry  of  Wordsworth,  those  earlier 
poems  which  are  all  short,  but  generally  scintillating  with 
gems  of  far  profounder  truth.  I  speak  of  that  truth 
which    strengthens    into   solemnity    an    impression   very 

*  Id  the  omitted  pages  De  Qulncey  discusses  The  Excursion. 


882  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

feebly  acknowledged  previously,  or  truth  which  suddenly 
unveils  a  connection  between  objects  hitherto  regarded 
as  irrelate  and  independent.  In  astronomy,  to  gain  the 
rank  of  discoverer,  it  is  not  required  that  you  should  re- 
veal a  star  absolutely  new :  find  out  with  respect  to  an  old 
star  some  new  affection — as,  for  instance,  that  it  has  an 
ascertainable  parallax — and  immediately  you  bring  it 
within  the  verge  of  a  human  interest;  or,  with  respect 
to  some  old  familiar  planet,  that  its  satellites  suffer  peri- 
odical eclipses,  and  immediately  you  bring  it  within  the 
verge  of  terrestrial  uses.  Gleams  of  steadier  vision  that 
brighten  into  certainty  appearances  else  doubtful,  or  that 
unfold  relations  else  unsuspected,  are  not  less  discoveries 
of  truth  than  the  downright  revelations  of  the  telescope, 
or  the  absolute  conquests  of  the  diving-bell.  It  is  aston- 
ishing how  large  a  harvest  of  new  truths  would  be  reaped 
simply  through  the  accident  of  a  man's  feeling,  or  being 
made  to  feel,  more  deeply  than  other  men.  He  sees  the 
same  objects,  neither  more  nor  fewer,  but  he  sees  them 
eng^raved  in  lines  far  stronger  and  more  determinate: 
and  the  difference  in  the  strength  makes  the  whole  dif- 
ference between  consciousness  and  subconsciousness. 
And  in  questions  of  the  mere  understanding  we  see  the 
same  fact  illustrated.  The  author  who  wins  notice  the 
most  is  not  he  that  perplexes  men  by  truths  drawn  from 
fountains  of  absolute  novelty, — ^truths  as  yet  unsunned, 
and  from  that  cause  obscure, — ^but  he  that  awakens  into 
illuminated  consciousness  ancient  lineaments  of  truth  long 
slumbering  in  the  mind,  although  too  faint  to  have  ex- 
torted attention.  Wordsworth  has  brought  many  a  truth 
into  life,  both  for  the  eye  and  for  the  understanding, 
which  previously  had  slumbered  indistinctly  for  all  men. 
For  instance,  as  respects  the  eye,  who  does  not  acknowl- 
edge instantaneously  the  magical  strength  of  truth  in  his 
saying  of  a  cataract  seen  from  a  station  two  miles  off 
that  it  was  "frozen  by  distance"  ?  *  In  all  nature  there  is 
not  an  object  so  essentially  at  war  with  the  stiffening  of 
frost  as  the  headlong  and  desperate  life  of  a  cataract ;  and 
yet  notoriously  the  effect  of  distance  is  to  lock  up  this 
frenzy  of  motion  into  the  most  petrific  column  of  still- 

*From  "Address  to  Kilcbutn  Castle." 


DE  QUINCE Y  333 

ness.  This  eflfect  is  perceived  at  once  when  pointed  out; 
but  how  few  are  the  eyes  that  ever  would  have  perceived 
it  for  themselves!  Twilight,  again — who  before  Words- 
worth ever  distinctly  noticed  its  abstracting  power? — 
that  power  of  removing,  softening,  harmonizing,  by  which 
a  mode  of  obscurity  executes  for  the  eye  the  same  mys- 
terious office  which  the  mind,  so  often,  within  its  own 
shadowy  realms,  excutes  for  itself.  In  the  dim  inter- 
space between  day  and  night  all  disappears  from  our 
earthly  scenery,  as  if  touched  by  an  enchanter's  rod,  which 
is  either  mean  or  inharmonious,  or  unquiet,  or  expres- 
sive of  temporary  things.  Leaning  against  a  column  of 
rock,  looking  down  upon  a  lake  or  river,  and  at  intervals 
carrying  your  eyes  forward  through  a  vista  of  mountains, 
you  become  aware  that  your  sight  rests  upon  the  very 
same  spectacle,  unaltered  in  a  single  feature,  which  once 
at  the  same  hour  was  beheld  by  the  legionary  Roman 
from  his  embattled  camp,  or  by  the  roving  Briton  in  his 
"wolf-skin  vest,"  lying  down  to  sleep,  and  looking 

Through  some  leafy  bower. 
Before  his  eyes  were  closed. 

How  magnificent  is  the  summary  or  abstraction  of  the 
elementary  features  in  such  a  scene,  as  executed  by  the 
poet  himself,  in  illustration  of  this  abstraction  daily  exe- 
cuted by  Nature  through  her  handmaid  Twilight!  Listen, 
reader,  to  the  closing  strain,  solemn  as  twilight  is  solemn, 
and  grand  as  the  spectacle  which  it  describes: 

By  him  [i.  e.  the  roving  Briton]  was  seen 
The  self-same  vision  which  we  now  behold, 
At  thy  meek  bidding,  shadowy  Power,  brought  forth; 
These  mighty  barriers  and  the  gulf  between; 
The  flood,  the  stars — a  spectacle  as  old 
As  the  beginning  of  the  heavens  and  earth.* 

Another  great  field  there  is  amongst  the  pomps  of  na- 
ture, which,  if  Wordsworth  did  not  first  notice,  he  cer- 
tainly has  noticed  most  circumstantially.  I  speak  of 
cloud-scenery,  or  those  pageants  of  sky-built  architecture 

*  From  the  sonnet,  "Hail  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful 
hour." 


334  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

which  sometimes  in  summer,  at  noonday,  and  in  all  sea- 
sons about  sunset,  arrest  or  appal  the  meditative;  "per- 
plexing monarchs"  with  the  spectacles  of  armies  maneu- 
vering, or  deepening  the  solemnity  of  evening  by  tower- 
ing edifices  that  mimic — ^but  which  also  in  mimicking 
mock — the  transitory  grandeurs  of  man.  It  is  singular 
that  these  gorgeous  phenomena,  not  less  than  those  of 
the  Aurora  Borealis,  have  been  so  little  noticed  by  the 
poets.  The  Aurora  was  naturally  neglected  by  the  south- 
em  poets  of  Greece  and  Rome,  as  not  much  seen  in  their 
latitudes.**  But  the  cloud-architecture  of  the  daylight  be- 
longs alike  to  north  and  south.  Accordingly,  I  remember 
one  notice  of  it  in  Hesiod, — a  case  where  the  clouds  ex- 
hibited 

The  beauteous  semblance  of  a  flock  at  rest. 

Another  there  is,  a  thousand  years  later,  in  Lucan: 
amongst  the  portents  which  that  poet  notices  as  prefig- 
uring the  dreadful  convulsions  destined  to  shake  the  earth 
at  Pharsalia,  I  remember  some  fiery  coruscation  of  arms 
in  the  heavens ;  *  but,  so  far  as  I  recollect,  the  appearances 
might  have  belonged  equally  to  the  workmanship  of  the 
clouds  or  the  Aurora.  Up  and  down  the  next  eight  hun- 
dred years  are  scattered  evanescent  allusions  to  these 
vapory  appearances;  in  Hamlet  and  elsewhere  occur 
gleams  of  such  allusions;  but  I  remember  no  distinct 
sketch  of  such  an  appearance  before  that  in  the  Antony 
and  Cleopatra  of  Shakespeare,  beginning 

Sometimes  we  see  a  cloud  that's  dragonish.* 

•But  then,  says  the  reader,  why  was  It  not  proportionably  the 
more  noticed  by  poets  of  the  north?  Certainly  that  question  is 
fair.  And  the  answer,  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  doubt,  is  this :  that 
until  the  rise  of  natural  philosophy  in  Charles  11 's  reign  there 
tDOB  no  name  for  the  appearance ;  on  which  account  some  writers 
have  been  absurd  enough  to  believe  that  the  Aurora  did  not  exist, 
noticeably,  until  about  1690.  Shakespeare,  in  his  Journeys  down 
to  Stratford  (always  performed  on  horseback),  must  often  have 
been  belated :  he  must  sometimes  have  seen,  he  could  not  but  have 
admired,  the  fiery  skirmishing  of  the  Aurora.  And  yet,  for  want 
of  a  word  to  fix  and  identify  the  gorgeous  phenomenon,  how  could 
he  Introduce  it  as  an  image,  or  even  as  the  subject  of  an  allusion, 
in  his  writings?     [De  Quincey's  note.l 

•  Pharsalia,  vli,  155 :  "Adversasque  faces  immensoqae  Igne 
columnas." 

» IV,  xiT,  2. 


DE  QUINCEY  335 

Subsequently  to  Shakespeare,  these  notices,  as  of  all  phe- 
nomena whatsoever  that  demanded  a  familiarity  with  na- 
ture in  the  spirit  of  love,  became  rarer  and  rarer.  At 
length,  as  the  eighteenth  century  was  winding  up  its  ac- 
counts, forth  stepped  William  Wordsworth;  of  whom,  as 
a  reader  of  all  pages  in  nature,  it  may  be  said  that,  if 
we  except  Dampier,^  the  admirable  buccaneer,  the  gentle 
■fxlihustier,  and  some  few  professional  naturalists,  he  first 
and  he  last  looked  at  natural  objects  with  the  eye  that 
neither  will  be  dazzled  from  without  nor  cheated  by  pre- 
conceptions from  within.  Most  men  look  at  nature  in  the 
hurry  of  a  confusion  that  distinguishes  nothing;  their 
error  is  from  without.  Pope,  again,  and  many  who  live 
in  towns,*  make  such  blunders  as  that  of  supposing  the 
moon  to  tip  with  the  silver  the  hills  behind  which  she  is 
rising,  not  by  erroneous  use  of  their  eyes  (for  they  use 
them  not  at  all),  but  by  inveterate  preconceptions. 
Scarcely  has  there  been  a  poet  with  what  could  be  called 
a  learned  eye,  or  an  eye  extensively  learned,  before 
Wordsworth.  Much  affectation  there  has  been  of  that 
sort  since  his  rise,  and  at  all  times  much  counterfeit  en- 
thusiasm ;  but  the  sum  of  the  matter  is  this, — that  Words- 
worth had  his  passion  for  nature  fixed  in  his  blood ;  it  was 
a  necessity,  like  that  of  the  mulberry-leaf  to  the  silk- 
worm; and  through  his  commerce  with  nature  did  he 
live  and  breathe.  Hence  it  was — viz.  from  the  truth  of 
his  love — that  his  knowledge  grew;  whilst  most  others, 
being  merely  hypocrites  in  their  love,  have  turned  out 
merely  sciolists  in  their  knowledge.  This  chapter,  there- 
fore, of  sky-scenery  may  be  said  to  have  been  revivified 
amongst  the  resources  of  poetry  by  Wordsworth — rekin- 
dled, if  not  absolutely  kindled.  The  sublime  scene  en- 
dorsed upon  the  draperies  of  the  storm  in  the  fourth  book 

■Ad  English  frpebooting  explorer  (1652-1715),  who  published 
a  Voyage  Rouivd  the  World  and  a  Ditcourse  on  the  Winda. 

*  It  was  not,  however,  that  all  poets  then  lived  in  towns ;  neither 
had  Pope  himself  jjenerally  lived  in  towns.  But  it  is  perfectly 
useless  to  be  familiar  with  nature  unless  there  is  a  public  trained 
to  love  and  value  nature.  It  is  not  what  the  individual  sees  that 
will  fix  Itself  as  beautiful  In  his  recollections,  but  what  he  sees 
under  a  consciousness  that  others  will  sympathize  with  his  feelings. 
Under  any  other  circumstances  familiarity  does  but  realise  the 
adage,  and  "breeds  contempt."  The  great  despisers  of  rural 
scenery,  its  fixed  and  permanent  undervaluers,  are  rustics.  (De 
Qnincey's  note.] 


336  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

of  the  Excursion — that  scene  again  witnessed  upon  the 
passage  of  the  Hamilton  Hills  in  Yorkshire — the  solemn 
"sky  prospect"  from  the  fields  of  France, — are  unrivaled 
in  that  order  of  composition;  and  in  one  of  these  records 
Wordsworth  has  given  first  of  all  the  true  key-note  of 
the  sentiment  belonging  to  these  grand  pageants.  They 
are,  says  the  poet,  speaking  in  a  case  where  the  appear- 
ance had  occurred  towards  night, 

Meek  nature's  evening  comment  on  the  ahowB 
And  all  the  fuming  vanities  of  earth."* 

Yes,  that  is  the  secret  moral  whispered  to  the  mind.  These 
mimicries  express  the  laughter  which  is  in  heaven  at 
earthly  pomps.  Frail  and  vapory  are  the  glories  of  man, 
even  as  the  visionary  parodies  of  those  glories  are  frail, 
even  as  the  scenical  copies  of  those  glories  are  frail, 
which  nature  weaves  in  clouds. 

As  another  of  those  natural  appearances  which  must 
have  haunted  men's  eyes  since  the  Flood,  but  yet  had  never 
forced  itself  into  conscious  notice  until  arrested  by 
Wordsworth,  I  may  notice  an  eflFect  of  iteration  daily  ex- 
hibited in  the  habits  of  cattle: 

The  cattle  are  grazing, 
Their  heads  never  raising; 
There  are  forty  feeding  as  one." 

Now,  merely  as  a  fact,  and  if  it  were  nothing  more,  this 
characteristic  appearance  in  the  habits  of  cows,  when  all 
repeat  the  action  of  each,  ought  not  to  have  been  over- 
looked by  those  who  profess  themselves  engaged  in  hold- 
ing up  a  mirror  to  nature.  But  the  fact  has  also  a  pro- 
found meaning  as  a  hieroglyphic.  In  all  animals  which 
live  under  the  protection  of  man  a  life  of  peace  and  quiet- 
ness, but  do  not  share  in  his  labors  or  in  his  pleasures, 
what  we  regard  is  the  species,  and  not  the  individual. 
Nobody  but  a  grazier  ever  looks  at  one  cow  amongst  a  field 
of  cows,  or  at  one  sheep  in  a  flock.  But,  as  to  those  ani- 
mals which  are  more  closely  connected  with  man, — not 
passively  connected,  but  actively,  being  partners  in  his 

*Prom  the  sonnet,    "Sky-Prospect  from  the  Plain  of  France." 
"  From  lines  "Written  in  March." 


DE  QUINCEY  837 

toils,  and  perils,  and  recreations,  such  as  horses,  dogs,  and 
falcons, — they  are  regarded  as  individuals,  and  are  allowed 
the  benefit  of  an  individual  interest.  It  is  not  that  cows 
have  not  a  differential  character,  each  for  herself;  and 
sheep,  it  is  well  known,  have  all  a  separate  physiognomy 
for  the  shepherd  who  has  cultivated  their  acquaintance. 
But  men  generally  have  no  opportunity  or  motive  for 
studying  the  individualities  of  creatures,  however  other- 
wise respectable,  that  are  too  much  regarded  by  all  of  us 
in  the  reversionary  light  of  milk,  and  beef,  and  mutton. 
Far  otherwise  it  is  with  horses,  who  share  in  man's  mar- 
tial risks,  who  sympathize  with  man's  frenzy  in  hunting, 
who  divide  with  man  the  burdens  of  noonday.  Far  other- 
wise it  is  with  dogs,  that  share  the  hearths  of  man,  and 
adore  the  footsteps  of  his  children.  These  man  loves;  of 
these  he  makes  dear,  though  humble,  friends.  These  often 
fight  for  him;  and  for  them  he  reciprocally  will  some- 
times fight.  Of  necessity,  therefore,  every  horse  and  every 
dog  is  an  individual — has  a  sort  of  personality  that  makes 
him  separately  interesting — has  a  beauty  and  a  charac- 
ter of  his  own.  Go  to  Melton,^^  therefore,  on  some  crim- 
son morning,  and  what  will  you  see?  Every  man,  every 
horse,  every  dog,  glorying  in  the  plenitude  of  life,  is  in 
a  different  attitude,  motion,  gesture,  action.  It  is  not 
there  the  sublime  unity  which  you  must  seek,  where  forty 
are  like  one;  but  the  sublime  infinity,  like  that  of  ocean, 
like  that  of  Flora,  like  that  of  nature,  where  no  repeti- 
tions are  endured,  no  leaf  is  the  copy  of  another  leaf,  no 
absolute  identity,  and  no  painful  tautologies.  This  sub- 
ject might  be  pursued  into  profounder  recesses;  but  in  a 
popular  discussion  it  is  necessary  to  forbear. 

A  volume  might  be  filled  with  such  glimpses  of  novelty 
as  Wordsworth  has  first  laid  bare,  even  to  the  apprehen- 
sion of  the  senses.  For  the  understanding,  when  moving 
in  the  same  track  of  human  sensibilities,  he  has  done  only 
not  so  much.  How  often  (to  give  an  instance  or  two) 
must  the  human  heart  have  felt  the  case,  and  yearned  for 
an  expression  of  the  case,  when  there  are  sorrows  which 
descend  far  below  the  region  in  which  tears  gather;  and 
yet  who  has  ever  given  utterance  to  this  feeling  until 
Wordsworth  came  with  his  immortal  line: 

"  Melton    Mowbray,    in    Leicestershire,    noted   for   fox-bunting. 


338  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears.** 

This  sentiment,  and  others  that  might  be  adduced  (such 
as  "The  child  is  father  to  the  man"),  have  even  passed 
into  the  popular  heart,  and  are  often  quoted  by  those 
■who  know  not  whom  they  are  quoting.  Magnificent, 
again,  is  the  sentiment,  and  yet  an  echo  to  one  which 
lurks  amongst  all  hearts,  in  relation  to  the  frailly  of 
merely  human  schemes  for  working  good,  which  so  often 
droop  and  collapse  through  the  unsteadiness  of  human 
energies, — 

Foundations  must  be  laid 
In  heaven." 

How?  Foundations  laid  in  realms  that  are  above?  But 
that  is  impossible;  that  is  at  war  with  elementary  physics; 
foundations  must  be  laid  below.  Yes;  and  even  so  the 
poet  throws  the  mind  yet  more  forcibly  on  the  hyper- 
physical  character — on  the  grandeur  transcending  all 
physics — of  those  spiritual  and  shadowy  foundations 
which  alone  are  enduring. 

But  the  great  distinction  of  Wordsworth,  and  the  pledge 
of  his  increasing  popularity,  is  the  extent  of  his  sympathy 
with  what  is  really  permanent  in  human  feelings,  and 
also  the  depth  of  this  sympathy.  Young  and  Cowper,  the 
two  earlier  leaders  in  the  province  of  meditative  poetry, 
are  too  circumscribed  in  the  range  of  their  sympathies, 
too  narrow,  too  illiberal,  and  too  exclusive.  Both  these 
poets  manifested  the  quality  of  their  strength  in  the  qual- 
ity of  their  public  reception.  Popular  in  some  degree 
from  the  first,  they  entered  upon  the  inheritance  of  their 
fame  almost  at  once.  Far  different  was  the  fate  of 
Wordsworth;  for  in  poetry  of  this  class,  which  appeals 
to  what  lies  deepest  in  man,  in  proportion  to  the  native 
I)ower  of  the  poet,  and  his  fitness  for  permanent  life,  is 
the  strength  of  resistance  in  the  public  taste.  Whatever 
is  too  original  will  be  hated  at  the  first.  It  must  slowly 
mould  a  public  for  itself;  ^°  and  the  resistance  of  the  early 

'•  "Intimations  of   Immortality."   last   line. 

"  From  the  sonnet  "Malham  Cove." 

"  Wordsworth's  own  doctrine.  Compare  his  "Essay  Supplemen- 
tary to  the  Preface"  to  the  Lj/rical  BaUadg:  "Every  author,  as 
far  as  he  is  great  and  at  the  same  time  original,  has  had  the 
task  of  creating  the  taste  by  which  he  is  to  be  enjoyed."  He 
adds  that  this  is  an  observation  of  Coleridge's. 


DE  QUINCEY  339 

thoughtless  judgments  must  be  overcome  by  a  counter- 
resistance  to  itself  in  a  better  audience  slowly  mustering 
against  the  first.  Forty  and  seven  years  it  is  since  Wil- 
liam Wordsworth  first  appeared  as  an  author.  Twenty  of 
those  years  he  was  the  scoff  of  the  world,  and  his  poetry 
a  byword  of  scorn.  Since  then,  and  more  than  once,  sen- 
ates have  rung  with  acclamations  to  the  echo  of  his  name. 
Now,  at  this  moment,  whilst  we  are  talking  about  him, 
he  has  entered  upon  his  seventy-sixth  year.  For  himself, 
according  to  the  course  of  nature,  he  cannot  be  far  from 
his  setting;  but  his  poetry  is  only  now  clearing  the  clouds 
that  gathered  about  its  rising.  Meditative  poetry  is  per- 
haps that  province  of  literature  which  will  ultimately 
maintain  most  power  amongst  the  generations  which  are 
coming;  but  in  this  department,  at  least,  there  is  little 
competition  to  be  apprehended  by  Wordsworth  from  any- 
thing that  has  appeared  since  the  death  of  Shakespeare. 


LITERATURE    OF    KNOWLEDGE    AND    LITERA- 
TURE OF  POWER 

Thomas  De  Quincey 

[This  selection  is  a  portion  of  an  essay  on  Pope,  which  ap- 
peared in  the  North  British  Review  for  Aujjust,  1848.  Twenty- 
five  years  earlier  De  Quincey  had  set  forth  the  same  distinc- 
tion in  his  Letters  to  a  Young  Man.] 

What  is  it  that  we  mean  by  literature?  Popularly, 
and  amongst  the  thoughtless,  it  is  held  to  include  every- 
thing that  is  printed  in  a  book.  Little  logic  is  required 
to  disturb  that  definition.  The  most  thoughtless  person 
is  easily  made  aware  that  in  the  idea  of  literature  one  es- 
sential element  is  some  relation  to  a  general  and  common 
interest  of  man, — so  that  what  applies  only  to  a  local,  or 
professional,  or  merely  personal  interest,  even  though  pre- 
senting itself  in  the  shape  of  a  book,  will  not  belong  to 
Literature.  So  far  the  definition  is  easily  narrowed;  and 
it  is  as  easily  expanded.  For  not  only  is  much  that  takes 
a  station  in  books  not  literature,  but  inversely,  much  that 
really  is  literature  never  reaches  a  station  in  books.    The 


3i0  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

we^ly  sermons  of  Christendom,  that  vast  pulpit  litera- 
ture which  acts  so  extensively  upon  the  popular  mind — 
to  warn,  to  uphold,  to  renew,  to  comfort,  to  alarm — does 
not  attain  the  sanctuary  of  libraries  in  the  ten-thousandth 
part  of  its  extent.  The  drama  again, — as,  for  instance, 
the  finest  part  of  Shakespeare's  plays  in  England,  and  all 
leading  Athenian  plays  in  the  noontide  of  the  Attic  stage, 
— operated  as  a  literature  on  the  public  mind,  and  were 
(according  to  the  strictest  letter  of  that  term)  piii>lished 
through  the  audiences  that  witnessed  their  representation 
some  time  before  they  were  published  as  things  to  be  read ; 
and  they  were  published  in  this  scenical  mode  of  publica- 
tion with  much  more  effect  than  they  could  have  had  as 
books  during  ages  of  costly  copying  or  of  costly  printing. 
Books,  therefore,  do  not  suggest  an  idea  coextensive  and 
interchangeable  with  the  idea  of  literature;  since  much 
literature,  scenic,  forensic,  or  didactic  (as  from  lecturers 
and  public  orators),  may  never  come  into  books,  and 
much  that  does  come  into  books  may  connect  itself  with 
no  literary  interest.  But  a  far  more  important  correc- 
tion, applicable  to  the  common  vague  idea  of  literature, 
is  to  be  sought  not  so  much  in  a  better  definition  of  litera- 
ture as  in  a  sharper  distinction  of  the  two  functions  which 
it  fulfils.  In  that  great  social  organ  which,  collectively, 
we  call  literature,  there  may  be  distinguished  two  sepa- 
rate offices,  that  may  blend  and  often  do  so,  but  capable, 
severally,  of  a  severe  insulation,  and  naturally  fitted  for 
reciprocal  repulsion.  There  is,  first,  the  literature  of 
Icnomledge,  and  secondly,  the  literature  of  power.  The 
function  of  the  first  is  to  teach;  the  function  of  the  second 
is  to  move;  the  first  is  a  rudder,  the  second  an  oar  or  a 
sail.  The  first  speaks  to  the  mere  discursive  understand- 
ing; the  second  speaks  ultimately,  it  may  happen,  to  the 
higher  understanding  or  reason,  but  always  through  af- 
fections of  pleasure  and  sympathy.  Remotely,  it  may 
travel  towards  an  object  seated  in  what  Lord  Bacon  calls 
"dry  light" ;  ^  but  proximately  it  does  and  must  operate — 
else  it  ceases  to  be  a  literature  of  power — on  and  through 

•  "Heraclitus  the  obscure  said :  The  dry  light  was  the  best 
soul.  Meaning,  when  the  faculties  intellectual  are  in  vigour,  not 
wet,  nor,  as  it  were,  blooded  by  the  affections."  (Bacon's 
Apophthegmt,  268.) 


DE  QUINCEY  341 

that  humid  light  which  clothes  itself  in  the  mists  and 
I  glittering  iris  of  human  passions,  desires,  and  genial  emo- 
tions. Men  have  so  little  reflected  on  the  higher  func- 
tions of  literature  as  to  find  it  a  paradox  if  one  should 
describe  it  as  a  mean  or  subordinate  purpose  of  books  to 
give  information.  But  this  is  a  paradox  only  in  the 
sense  which  makes  it  honorable  to  be  paradoxical.  When- 
ever we  talk  in  ordinary  language  of  seeking  informa- 
tion or  gaining  knowledge,  we  understand  the  words  as 
connected  with  something  of  absolute  novelty.  But  it 
is  the  grandeur  of  all  truth  which  can  occupy  a  very  high 
place  in  human  interests  that  it  is  never  absolutely  novel 
to  the  meanest  of  minds;  it  exists  eternally  by  way  of 
germ  or  latent  principle  in  the  lowest  as  in  the  highest, 
needing  to  be  developed,  but  never  to  be  planted.  To  be 
capable  of  transplantation  is  the  immediate  criterion  of 
a  truth  that  ranges  on  a  lower  scale.  Besides  which, 
there  is  a  rarer  thing  than  truth, — namely  power,  or  deep 
sympathy  with  truth.  What  is  the  effect,  for  instance, 
upon  society  of  children  ?  By  the  pity,  by  the  tenderness, 
and  by  the  peculiar  modes  of  admiration  which  connect 
themselves  with  the  helplessness,  with  the  innocence,  and 
with  the  simplicity  of  children,  not  only  are  the  primal 
affections  strengthened  and  continually  renewed,  but  the 
qualities  which  are  dearest  in  the  sight  of  heaven — the 
frailty,  for  instance,  which  appeals  to  forbearance,  the 
innocence  which  symbolizes  the  heavenly,  and  the  sim- 
plicity which  is  most  alien  from  the  worldly — are  kept 
up  in  perpetual  remembrance,  and  their  ideals  are  con- 
tinually refreshed.  A  purpose  of  the  same  nature  is  an- 
swered by  the  higher  literature,  viz.  the  literature  of 
power.  What  do  you  learn  from  Paradise  Lost?  Noth- 
ing at  all.  What  do  you  learn  from  a  cookery-book? 
Something  new,  something  that  you  did  not  know  before, 
in  every  paragraph.  But  would  you  therefore  put  the 
wretched  cookery-book  on  a  higher  level  of  estimation 
than  the  divine  poem?  What  you  owe  to  Milton  is  not 
any  knowledge,  of  which  a  million  separate  items  are 
still  but  a  million  of  advancing  steps  on  the  same  earthly 
level;  what  you  owe  is  power, — that  is,  exercise  and  ex- 
pansion to  your  own  latent  capacity  of  sympathy  with 
the  infinite,  where  every  pulse  and  each  separate  influx 


342  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

is  a  step  upwards,  a  step  ascending  as  upon  a  Jacob's 
ladder  from  earth  to  mysterious  altitudes  above  the  earth. 
All  the  steps  of  knowledge,  from  first  to  last,  carry  you 
further  on  the  same  plane,  but  could  never  raise  you  one 
foot  above  your  ancient  level  of  earth;  whereas  the  very 
first  step  in  power  is  a  flight — is  an  ascending  move- 
ment into  another  element  where  earth  is  forgotten. 

Were  it  not  that  human  sensibilities  are  ventilated  and 
continually  called  out  into  exercise  by  the  great  phenom- 
ena of  infancy,  or  of  real  life  as  it  moves  through  chance 
and  change,  or  of  literature  as  it  recombines  these  ele- 
naents  in  the  mimicries  of  poetry,  romance,  etc.,  it  is 
certain  that,  like  any  animal  power  or  muscular  energy 
falling  into  disuse,  all  such  sensibilities  would  gradually 
•droop  and  dwindle.  It  is  in  relation  to  these  great  moral 
capacities  of  man  that  the  literature  of  power,  as  con- 
tradistinguished from  that  of  knowledge,  lives  and  has 
its  field  of  action.  It  is  concerned  with  what  is  highest 
in  man;  for  the  Scriptures  themselves  never  condescended 
to  deal  by  suggestion  or  cooperation  with  the  mere  dis- 
cursive understanding:  when  speaking  of  man  in  his  in- 
tellectual capacity,  the  Scriptures  speak  not  of  the  un- 
derstanding, but  of  "the  understanding  heart," — making 
the  heart,  i.e.,  the  great  intuitive  (or  non-discursive) 
organ,  to  be  the  interchangeable  formula  for  man  in  his 
highest  state  of  capacity  for  the  infinite.  Tragedy,  ro- 
mance, fairy  tale,  or  epopee,  all  alike  restore  to  man's 
mind  the  ideals  of  justice,  of  hope,  of  truth,  of  mercy,  of 
retribution,  which  else  (left  to  the  support  of  daily  life 
in  its  realities)  would  languish  for  want  of  sufficient  il- 
lustration. 

What  is  meant,  for  instance,  by  poetic  justicef  It  does 
not  mean  a  justice  that  differs  by  its  object  from  the  ordi- 
nary justice  of  human  jurisprudence,  for  then  it  must 
be  confessedly  a  very  bad  kind  of  justice;  but  it  means  a 
justice  that  differs  from  common  forensic  justice  by  the 
degree  in  which  it  attains  its  object, — a  justice  that  is 
more  omnipotent  over  its  own  ends,  as  dealing,  not  with 
the  refractory  elements  of  earthly  life,  but  with  the  ele- 
ments of  its  own  creation,  and  with  materials  flexible  to 
its  own  purest  preconceptions.  It  is  certain  that,  were  it 
not  for  the  literature  of  power,  these  ideals  would  often 


DE  QUINCEY  843 

remain  amongst  us  as  mere  arid  notional  forms;  whereas, 
by  the  creative  forces  of  man  put  forth  in  literature,  they 
gain  a  vernal  life  of  restoration,  and  germinate  into  vital 
activities.  The  commonest  novel,  by  moving  in  alliance 
with  human  fears  and  hopes,  with  human  instincts  of 
wrong  and  right,  sustains  and  quickens  those  affections. 
Calling  them  into  action,  it  rescues  them  from  torpor. 
And  hence  the  preeminency  over  all  authors  that  merely 
teach,  of  the  meanest  that  moves,  or  that  teaches,  if  at 
all,  indirectly  by  moving.  The  very  highest  work  that 
has  ever  existed  in  the  literature  of  knowledge  is  but  a 
provisional  work, — a  book  upon  trial  and  sufferance,  and 
quamdiu  bene  se  gesserit.^  Let  its  teaching  be  even  par- 
tially revised,  let  it  be  but  expanded, — nay,  even  let  its 
teaching  be  but  placed  in  a  better  order, — and  instantly 
it  is  superseded.  Whereas  the  feeblest  works  in  the 
literature  of  power,  surviving  at  all,  survive  as  finished 
and  unalterable  amongst  men.  For  instance,  the  Prin- 
cipia  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton  was  a  book  militant  on  earth 
from  the  first.  In  all  stages  of  its  progress  it  would  have 
to  fight  for  its  existence;  first,  as  regards  absolute  truth; 
secondly,  when  that  combat  was  over,  as  regards  its  form 
or  mode  of  presenting  the  truth.  And  as  soon  as  a 
Laplace,  or  anybody  else,  builds  higher  upon  the  founda- 
tions laid  by  this  book,  effectually  he  throws  it  out  of 
the  sunshine  into  decay  and  darkness;  by  weapons  won 
from  this  book  he  superannuates  and  destroys  this  book, 
so  that  soon  the  name  of  Newton  remains  as  a  mere 
nominis  umbra,  but  his  book,  as  a  living  power,  has 
transmigrated  into  other  forms.  Now,  on  the  contrary, 
the  Iliad,  the  Promethetus  of  ^schylus,  the  Othello  or 
King  Lear,  the  Hamlet  or  Macbeth,  and  the  Paradise  Lost, 
are  not  militant,  but  triumphant  for  ever,  as  long  as  the 
languages  exist  in  which  they  speak  or  can  be  taught 
to  speak.  They  never  can  transmigrate  into  new  incar- 
nations. To  reproduce  these  in  new  forms,  or  varia- 
tions, even  if  in  some  things  they  should  be  improved, 
would  be  to  plagiarize.  A  good  steam-engine  is  properly 
superseded  by  a  better.  But  one  lovely  pastoral  valley 
is  not  superseded  by  another,  nor  a  statue  of  Praxiteles  by 

*  "As  long  as  It  behaves  itself." 


344  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

a  statue  of  Michael  Angelo.  These  things  are  separated 
not  by  imparity,  but  by  disparity.  They  are  not  thought 
of  as  unequal  under  the  same  standard,  but  as  different 
in  kind,  and,  if  otherwise  equal,  as  equal  under  a  differ- 
ent standard.  Human  works  of  immortal  beauty  and 
works  of  nature  in  one  respect  stand  on  the  same  footing : 
they  never  absolutely  repeat  each  other,  never  approach 
so  near  as  not  to  differ,  and  they  differ  not  as  better  and 
worse,  or  simply  by  more  and  less, — they  differ  by  un- 
decipherable and  incommunicable  differences,  that  cannot 
be  caught  by  mimicries,  that  cannot  be  reflected  in  the 
mirror  of  copies,  that  cannot  become  ponderable  in  the 
scales  of  vulgar  comparison. 

Applying  these  principles  to  Pope  as  a  representative 
of  fine  literature  in  general,  we  would  wish  to  remark 
the  claim  which  he  has,  or  which  any  equal  writer  has, 
to  the  attention  and  jealous  winnowing  of  those  critics 
in  particular  who  watch  over  public  morals.  Clergymen, 
and  all  organs  of  public  criticism  put  in  motion  by 
clergymen,  are  more  especially  concerned  in  the  just 
appreciation  of  such  writers,  if  the  two  canons  are  re- 
membered which  we  have  endeavored  to  illustrate,  viz., 
that  all  works  in  this  class,  as  opposed  to  those  in  the 
literature  of  knowledge,  first,  work  by  far  deeper  agencies, 
and  secondly,  are  more  permanent;  in  the  strictest  sense 
they  are  kti/^oto  Is  d«t :  ^  and  what  evil  they  do,  or  what 
good  they  do,  is  commensurate  with  the  national  lan- 
guage, sometimes  long  after  the  nation  has  departed.  At 
this  hour,  five  hundred  years  since  their  creation,  the 
tales  of  Chaucer,  never  equaled  on  this  earth  for  their 
tenderness,  and  for  life  of  picturesqueness,  are  read  fa- 
miliarly by  many  in  the  charming  language  of  their 
natal  day,  and  by  others  in  the  modernizations  of  Dryden, 
of  Pope,  and  Wordsworth.  At  this  hour,  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  years  since  their  creation,  the  pagan  tales 
of  Ovid,  never  equaled  on  this  earth  for  the  gayety  of 
their  movement  and  the  capricious  graces  of  their  narra- 
tive, are  read  by  all  Christendom.  This  man's  people 
and  their  monuments  are  dust;  but  he  is  alive:  he  has 
survived   them,   as   he   told   us   that   he   had    it   in   his 

*  "PoBsessions  forever."  (From  Thucydides's  Preface  to  his  His- 
tory.) 


DE  QUINCEY  345 

commission  to  do,*  by  a  thousand  years;   "and  shell  a 
thousand  more." 

All  the  literature  of  knowledge  builds  only  ground- 
nests,  that  are  swept  away  by  floods,  or  confounded  by  the 
plough;  but  the  literature  of  power  builds  nests  in  aerial 
altitudes  of  temples  sacred  from  violation,  or  of  forests 
inaccessible  to  fraud.  This  is  a  great  prerogative  of  the 
power  literature;  and  it  is  a  greater  which  lies  in  the  mode 
of  its  influence.  The  knowledge  literature,  like  the 
fashion  of  this  world,  passeth  away.  An  encyclopedia  is 
its  abstract;  and,  in  this  respect,  it  may  be  taken  for 
its  speaking  symbol — that  before  one  generation  has 
passed  an  encyclopedia  is  superannuated;  for  it  speaks 
through  the  dead  memory  and  unimpassioned  understand- 
ing, which  have  not  the  repose  of  higher  faculties,  but  are 
continually  enlarging  and  varying  their  phylacteries.  But 
all  literature  properly  so  called — literature,  Kar'  t^oxv  — ^ 
for  the  very  reason  that  it  is  so  much  more  durable  than 
the'  literature  of  knowledge,  is  (and  by  the  very  same 
proportion  it  is)  more  intense  and  electrically  searching 
in  its  impressions.  The  directions  in  which  the  tragedy 
of  this  planet  has  trained  our  human  feelings  to  play, 
and  the  combinations  into  which  the  poetry  of  this  planet 
has  thrown  our  human  passions  of  love  and  hatred,  of 
admiration  and  contempt,  exercise  a  power  for  bad  or 
good  over  human  life  that  cannot  be  contemplated,  when 
stretching  through  many  generations,  without  a  sentiment 
allied  to  awe."    And  of  this  let  every  one  be  assured — that 

«  Metamorphoact,  xv,  876-79  : 

Cum  volet  ilia  dies,  quae  nil  nisi  corporis  hujus 
Jus  habet,  incertt  spatium  mihi  (iniat  arvi ; 
Parte  tameii    incliore   mcl   super   alta    porennis 
Astra   ferar   nomenque   erit    Indolobile    nostnim. 
("Let  that  day   which   has  no   power  but   over   this   bodv  of  mine 
put  an  end  to  the  term  of  my  uncertain   life  when  it   will ;  yet  in 
my  better  part    1    shall   be   raised   immortal  above   the  lofty   stars, 
and  indestructible  shall  be  my  name.") 
•  Par  excellence. 

•The  reason  why  the  broad  distinctions  between  the  two  litera- 
tures of  power  and  knowledKc  so  little  fix  the  attention  lies  in 
the  fact  that  a  vast  proportion  of  books. — historj-.  biofcraphy. 
travels,  miscellaneous  essays,  etc. — lyinp  in  a  middle  zone,  confound 
these  distinctions  by  interblendinfc  them.  All  that  we  call  "amuse- 
ment" or  "entertainment"  is  a  diluted  form  of  the  power  belonifinff 
to  passion,  and  also  a  mixed  form  ;  and.  where  threads  of  direct 
inatruction  intermingle  In  the  texture  with  these  threads  of  poioer, 
this  absorption  of  the  duality  into  one  representative  nuance  nen* 


346  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

he  owes  to  the  impassioned  books  which  he  has  read  many 
a  thousand  more  of  emotions  than  he  can  consciously 
trace  back  to  them.  Dim  by  their  origination,  these  emo- 
tions yet  arise  in  him,  and  mould  him  through  life,  like 
forgotten  incidents  of  his  childhood. 


THE  DOCTEINE  OF  "COKRECTNESS" 
Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 

[This  selection  is  a  portion  of  Macaulay's  review  of  Moore's 
Life  of  Byron;  it  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  for 
June,  1831.] 

Wherein  especially  does  the  poetry  of  our  times 
differ  from  that  of  the  last  century?  Ninety -nine  per- 
sons out  of  a  hundred  would  answer  that  the  poetry  of 
the  last  century  was  correct,  but  cold  and  mechanical, 
and  that  the  poetry  of  our  time,  though  wild  and  irregu- 
lar, presented  far  more  vivid  images  and  excited  the 
passions  far  more  strongly  than  that  of  Parnell,  of  Addi- 
son, or  of  Pope.  In  the  same  manner  we  constantly  hear 
it.  said  that  the  poets  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth  had  far 
more  genius,  but  far  less  correctness,  than  those  of  the 
age  of  Anne.  It  seems  to  be  taken  for  granted  that  there 
is  some  incompatibility,  some  antithesis,  between  correct- 
ness and  creative  power.  We  rather  suspect  that  this 
notion  arises  merely  from  an  abuse  of  words,  and  that 
it  has  been  the  parent  of  many  of  the  fallacies  which  per- 
plex the  science  of  criticism. 

What  is  meant  by  correctness  in  poetry?  If  by  cor- 
rectness be  meant  the  conforming  to  rules  which  have 
their  foundation  in  truth  and  in  the  principles  of  human 
nature,  then  correctness  is  only  another  name  for  excel- 
lence. If  by  correctness  be  meant  the  conforming  to  rules 
purely  arbitrary,  correctness  may  be  another  name  for 
dulness  and  absurdity. 

A  writer  who  describes  visible  objects  falsely,  and  vio- 
lates the  propriety  of  character,  a  writer  who  makes  the 

tralises  the  separate  perception  of  either.  Fused  into  a  tcrtium 
Quid,  or  neutral  state,  they  disappear  to  the  popular  eye  as  the 
repelling  forces  which,  in  fact,  they  are.     [De  Quincey's  note.] 


MACAULAY  34T 

mountains  "nod  their  drowsy  heads"  at  night,  or  a  dying 
man  take  leave  of  the  world  with  a  rant  like  that  of 
Maximin/  may  be  said,  in  the  high  and  just  sense  of  the 
phrase,  to  write  incorrectly.  He  violates  the  first  great 
law  of  his  art.  His  imitation  is  altogether  unlike  the 
thing  imitated.  The  four  poets  who  are  most  eminently 
free  from  incorrectness  of  this  description  are  Homer, 
Dante,  Shakespeare,  and  Milton.  They  are  therefore,  in 
one  sense,  and  that  the  best  sense,  the  most  correct  of 
poets. 

When  it  is  said  that  Virgil,  though  he  had  less  geniua 
than  Homer,  was  a  more  correct  writer,  what  sense  i& 
attached  to  the  word  correctness?  Is  it  meant  that  the 
story  of  the  Mneid  is  developed  more  skilfully  than  that 
of  the  Odyssey?  that  the  Roman  describes  the  face  of  the 
external  world,  or  the  emotions  of  the  mind,  more  ac- 
curately than  the  Greek?  that  the  characters  of  Achates 
and  Mnestheus  are  more  nicely  discriminated,  and  more 
consistently  supported,  than  those  of  Achilles,  of  Nestor, 
and  of  Ulysses?  The  fact  incontestably  is  that,  for  every 
violation  of  the  fundamental  laws  of  poetry  which  can 
be  found  in  Homer,  it  would  be  easy  to  find  twenty  in 
Virgil. 

Troilus  and  Cressida  is  perhaps  of  all  the  plays  of 
Shakespeare  that  which  is  commonly  considered  as  the 
most  incorrect.  Yet  it  seems  to  us  infinitely  more  cor- 
rect, in  the  sound  sense  of  the  term,  than  what  are  called 
the  most  correct  plays  of  the  most  correct  dramatists. 
Compare  it,  for  example,  with  the  Iphigenie  of  Racine. 
We  are  sure  that  the  Greeks  of  Shakespeare  bear  a  far 
greater  resemblance  than  the  Greeks  of  Racine  to  the  real 
Greeks  who  besieged  Troy;  and  for  this  reason,  that  the 
Greeks  of  Shakespeare  are  human  beings,  and  the  Greeks 
of  Racine  mere  names,  mere  words  printed  in  capitals 
at  the  head  of  paragraphs  of  declamation.^  Racine,  it  is 
true,  would  have  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  making  a 
warrior  at  the  siege  of  Troy  quote  Aristotle.  But  of  what 
use  is  it  to  avoid  a  single  anachronism,  when  the  whole 
play  is  one  anachronism,  the  sentiments  and  phrases  of 
Versailles  in  the  camp  of  Aulis? 

» In  Dryden's  Tyrannic  Love. 
*Ck>mpare  Hazlitt,  p.  250. 


348  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

In  the  sense  in  which  we  are  now  using  the  word 
correctness,  we  think  that  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Mr.  Words- 
worth, Mr.  Coleridge,  are  far  more  correct  poets  than  those 
who  are  commonly  extolled  as  the  models  of  correctness, — 
Pope,  for  example,  and  Addison.  The  single  descrip- 
tion of  a  moonlight  night  in  Pope's  Iliad  '  contains  more 
inaccuracies  than  can  be  found  in  all  the  Excursion. 
There  is  not  a  single  scene  in  Cato  *  in  which  all  that 
conduces  to  poetical  illusion,  all  the  propriety  of  char- 
acter, of  language,  of  situation,  is  not  more  grossly 
violated  than  in  any  part  of  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel. 
No  man  can  possibly  think  that  the  Romans  of  Addison 
resemble  the  real  Romans  so  closely  as  the  moss-troopers 
of  Scott  resemble  the  real  moss-troopers.  Wat  Tinlinn 
and  William  of  Deloraine  are  not,  it  is  true,  persons  of 
so  much  dignity  as  Cato.  But  the  dignity  of  the  persons 
represented  has  as  little  to  do  with  the  correctness  of 
poetry  as  with  the  correctness  of  painting.  We  prefer  a 
gypsy  by  Reynolds  to  His  Majesty's  head  on  a  signpost, 
and  a  Borderer  by  Scott  to  a  senator  by  Addison. 

In  what  sense,  then,  is  the  word  correctness  used  by 
those  who  say,  with  the  author  of  The  Pursuits  of  Litera- 
ture,^ that  Pope  was  the  most  correct  of  English  poets, 
and  that  next  to  Pope  came  the  late  Mr.  Gifford?  What 
is  the  nature  and  value  of  that  correctness  the  praise  of 
which  is  denied  to  Macbeth,  to  Lear,  and  to  Othello,  and 
given  to  Hoole's  translations  and  to  all  the  Seatonian 
prize-poems?^  We  can  discover  no  eternal  rule,  no  rule 
founded  in  reason  and  in  the  nature  of  things,  which 
Shakespeare  does  not  observe  much  more  strictly  than 
Pope.     But  if  by  correctness  be  meant  the  conforming 

•  Book  vlU,  conclusion.  V^ordsworth  had  written  to  the  same 
effect,  in  bis  "Essay  Supplementary" :  "To  what  a  low  state 
knowledge  of  the  most  obvious  and  important  phenomena  had 
sunk,  is  evident  from  the  style  in  which  Dryden  has  executed  a 
description  of  night  in  one  or  his  tragedies,  and  Pope  his  transla- 
tion of  the  celebrated  moonlight  scene  in  the  Iliad.  A  blind  man, 
in  the  habit  of  attending  accurately  to  descriptions  casually 
dropped  from  the  lips  of  those  around  him,  might  easily  depict 
these  appearances  with  more  truth." 

*By  Addison    (1713).     Compare  Leigh   Hunt,  p.  388. 

•A  literary  satire  by  T.  J.  Mathias  (1794). 

•John  Hoole  (1727-1803)  translated  works  of  Tasso,  Arlosto, 
and  Metastasio  into  English  verse.  The  Seatonian  prize  has  beea 
awarded  at  Cambridge  University  since  1750,  for  the  best  com- 
peting poem  on  a  sacred  subject. 


MACAULAY  849 

to  a  narrow  legislation  which,  while  lenient  to  the  mala 
in  86,  multiplies  without  the  shadow  of  a  reason  the  mala 
prohibita, — if  by  correctness  be  meant  a  strict  attention 
to  certain  ceremonious  observances,  which  are  no  more 
essential  to  poetry  than  etiquette  to  good  government,  or 
than  the  washings  of  a  Pharisee  to  devotion, — then,  as- 
suredly. Pope  may  be  a  more  correct  poet  than  Shakes- 
peare; and,  if  the  code  were  a  little  altered,  Colley  Gibber 
might  be  a  more  correct  poet  than  Pope.  But  it  may 
well  be  doubted  whether  this  kind  of  correctness  be  a 
merit,  nay,  whether  it  be  not  an  absolute  fault. 

It  would  be  amusing  to  make  a  digest  of  the  irrational 
laws  which  bad  critics  have  framed  for  the  government 
of  poets.  First  in  celebrity  and  in  absurdity  stand  the 
dramatic  unities  of  place  and  time.  No  human  being 
has  ever  been  able  to  find  anything  that  could,  even  by 
courtesy,  be  called  an  argument  for  these  unities,  except 
that  they  have  been  deduced  from  the  general  practice  of 
the  Greeks.  It  requires  no  very  profound  examination 
to  discover  that  the  Greek  dramas,  often  admirable  as 
compositions,  are,  as  exhibitions  of  human  character  and 
human  life,  far  inferior  to  the  English  plays  of  the  age 
of  Elizabeth.  Every  scholar  know  that  the  dramatic  part 
of  the  Athenian  tragedies  was  at  first  subordinate  to 
the  lyrical  part  It  would,  therefore,  have  been  little 
less  than  a  miracle  if  the  laws  of  the  Athenian  stage  had 
been  found  to  suit  plays  in  which  there  was  no  chorus. 
All  the  greatest  masterpieces  of  the  dramatic  art  have 
been  composed  in  direct  violation  of  the  unities,  and  could 
never  have  been  composed  if  the  unities  had  not  been 
violated.  It  is  clear,  for  example,  that  such  a  character 
as  that  of  Hamlet  could  never  have  been  developed  within 
the  limits  to  which  Alfieri  ^  confined  himself.  Yet  such 
was  the  reverence  of  literary  men  during  the  last  century 
for  the  unities,  that  Johnson,  who,  much  to  his  honor, 
took  the  opposite  side,  was,  as  he  says,  "frightened  at 
his  own  temerity,"  and  "afraid  to  stand  against  the  au- 
thorities which  might  be  produced  against  him."  " 

There  are  other  rules  of  the  same  kind  without  end. 
"Shakespeare,"   says   Rymer,    "ought  not  to   have  made 

r 

»An  Italian  writer  of  classical  trajredies   (1749-1803). 
*Ia  the  Preface  to  bis  edition  of  Shakespeare. 


350  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Othello  black;  for  the  hero  of  a  tragedy  ought  always  to 
be  white."  '  "Milton,"  says  another  critic,  "ought  not  to 
have  taken  Adam  for  his  hero;  for  the  hero  of  an  epic 
poem  ought  always  to  be  victorious."  "Milton,"  says 
another,  "ought  not  to  have  put  so  many  similes  into 
his  first  book;  for  the  first  book  of  an  epic  poem  ought 
always  to  be  the  most  unadorned.  There  are  no  similes 
in  the  first  book  of  the  Iliad"  "Milton,"  says  another, 
**ought  not  to  have  placed  in  an  epic  poem  such  lines  as 
these: 

While  thus  I  called,  and  strayed  I  knew  not  whither." 

And  why  not  ?  The  critic  is  ready  with  a  reason — a  lady's 
reason.  "Such  lines,"  says  he,  "are  not,  it  must  be  al- 
lowed, unpleasing  to  the  ear;  but  the  redundant  syllable 
ought  to  be  confined  to  the  drama,  and  not  admitted  into 
epic  poetry."  As  to  the  redundant  syllable  in  heroic 
rhyme  on  serious  subjects,  it  has  been,  from  the  time  of 
Pope  downward,  proscribed  by  the  general  consent  of  all 
the  correct  school.  No  magazine  would  have  admitted  so 
incorrect  a  couplet  as  that  of  Drayton: 

As  when  we  lived  untouch'd  with  these  disgraces, 
When  as  our  kingdom  was  our  dear  embraces." 

Another  law  of  heroic  rhyme  which,  fifty  years  ago,  was 
considered  as  fundamental,  was  that  there  should  be  a 
pause,  a  comma  at  least,  at  the  end  of  every  couplet. 
It  was  also  provided  that  there  should  never  be  a  full 
stop  except  at  the  end  of  a  line.  Well  do  we  remember 
to  have  heard  a  most  correct  judge  of  poetry  revile  Mr. 
Rogers  for  the  incorrectness  of  that  most  sweet  and 
graceful  passage, — 

Such  grief  was  ours — it  seems  but  yesterday— 
When  in  thy  prime,  wishing  so  much  to  stay, 
'T  was  thine,  Maria,  thine  without  a  sigh 
At  midnight  in  a  sister's  arms  to  die. 
Oh  thou  wert  lovely;  lovely  was  thy  frame, 

•  In  A  Short  View  of  Tragedy,  1692. 

"From  England'^  Heroioal  Epistlet   ("Lady  Jane  Gray  to  Lon) 
Gilford  Dudley"). 


MACAULAY  861 

And  pure  thy  spirit  as  from  heaven  it  came; 
And  when  recalled  to  join  the  blest  above 
Thou  diedst  a  victim  to  exceeding  love, 
Nursing  the  young  to  health.     In  happier  hours, 
When  idle  Fancy  wove  luxuriant  flowers, 
Once  in  thy  mirth  thou  badst  me  write  on  thee ; 
And  now  I  write  what  thou  shalt  never  see." 

Sir  Eoger  Newdigate  is  fairly  entitled,  we  think,  to  be 
ranked  among  the  great  critics  of  this  school.  He  made 
a  law  that  none  of  the  poems  written  for  the  prize  which 
he  established  at  Oxford  should  exceed  fifty  lines.  This 
law  seems  to  us  to  have  at  least  as  much  foundation  in 
reason  as  any  of  those  which  we  have  mentioned, — ^nay, 
much  more,  for  the  world,  we  believe,  is  pretty  well  agreed 
in  thinking  that  the  shorter  a  prize  poem  is  the  better. 
We  do  not  see  why  we  should  not  make  a  few  more  rules 
of  the  same  kind ;  why  we  should  not  enact  that  the  num- 
ber of  scenes  in  every  act  shall  be  three  or  some  multiple 
of  three,  that  the  number  of  lines  in  every  scene  shall 
be  an  exact  square,  that  the  dramatis  persorue  shall  never 
be  more  or  fewer  than  sixteen,  and  that,  in  heroic  rhymes, 
every  thirty-sixth  line  shall  have  twelve  syllables.  If  we 
were  to  lay  down  these  canons,  and  to  call  Pope,  Gold- 
smith, and  Addison  incorrect  writers  for  not  having 
complied  with  our  whims,  we  should  act  precisely  as  those 
critics  act  who  find  incorrectness  in  the  magnificent  im- 
agery and  the  varied  music  of  Coleridge  and  Shelley. 

The  correctness  which  the  last  century  prized  so  much 
resembles  the  correctness  of  those  pictures  of  the  garden 
of  Eden  which  we  see  in  old  Bibles.  We  have  an  exact 
square,  enclosed  by  the  rivers  Pison,  Gihon,  Hiddekel,  and 
Euphrates,  each  with  a  convenient  bridge  in  the  center, 
rectangular  beds  of  flowers,  a  long  canal,  neatly  bricked 
and  railed  in;  the  tree  of  knowledge,  clipped  like  one  of 
the  limes  behind  the  Tuileries,  standing  in  the  center  of 
the  grand  alley,  the  snake  twined  round  it,  the  man  on 
the  right  hand,  the  woman  on  the  left,  and  the  beasts 
drawn  up  in  an  exact  circle  round  them.  In  one  sense 
the  picture  is  correct  enough.  That  is  to  say,  the  squares 
are   correct,   the  circles   are  correct;   the  man   and  the 

"  Prom  Samuel  Rogers's  "Human  Life." 


352  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

woman  are  In  a  most  correct  line  with  the  tree;  and  the 
snake  forms  a  most  correct  spiral.  But  if  there  were  a 
painter  so  gifted  that  he  could  place  on  the  canvas  that 
glorious  paradise  seen  by  the  interior  eye  of  him  whose 
outward  sight  had  failed  with  long  watching  and  labor- 
ing for  liberty  and  truth, — if  there  were  a  painter  who 
could  set  before  us  the  mazes  of  the  sapphire  brook,  the 
lake  with  its  fringe  of  myrtles,  the  flowery  meadows,  the 
grottoes  overhung  by  vines,  the  forests  shining  with 
Hesperian  fruit  and  with  the  plumage  of  gorgeous  birds, 
the  massy  shade  of  that  nuptial  bower  which  showered 
down  roses  on  the  sleeping  lovers, — what  should  we  think 
of  a  connoisseur  who  should  tell  us  that  this  painting, 
though  finer  than  the  absurd  picture  in  the  old  Bible,  was 
not  so  correct?  Surely  we  should  answer,  It  is  both  finer 
and  more  correct,  and  it  is  finer  because  it  is  more  cor- 
rect. It  is  not  made  up  of  correctly  drawn  diagrams, 
but  it  is  a  correct  painting,  a  worthy  representation  of 
that  which  it  is  intended  to  represent. 

It  is  not  in  the  fine  arts  alone  that  this  false  correctness 
is  prized  by  narrow-minded  men,  by  men  who  cannot 
distinguish  means  from  ends,  or  what  is  accidental  from 
what  is  essential.  M.  Jourdain  ^^  admired  correctness  in 
fencing.  "You  had  no  business  to  hit  me  then.  You 
must  never  thrust  in  quart  till  you  have  thrust  in  tierce." 
M.  Tomes  ^'  liked  correctness  in  medical  practice.  "I 
stand  up  for  Artemius.  That  he  killed  his  patient  is  plain 
enough.  But  still  he  acted  quite  according  to  rule.  A 
man  dead  is  a  man  dead,  and  there  is  an  end  of  the 
matter.  But  if  rules  are  to  be  broken,  there  is  no  saying 
what  consequences  may  follow."  We  have  heard  of  an 
old  German  officer  who  was  a  gfreat  admirer  of  correct- 
ness in  military  operations.  He  used  to  revile  Bonaparte 
for  spoiling  the  science  of  war,  which  had  been  carried 
to  such  exquisite  perfection  by  Marshal  Daun.  "In  my 
youth  we  used  to  march  and  countermarch  all  the  sum- 
mer without  gaining  or  losing  a  square  league,  and  then 
we  went  into  winter  quarters.  And  now  comes  an  igno- 
rant, hot-headed  young  man,  who  flies  about  from  Bologne 
to  Ulm,  and  from  Ulm  to  the  middle  of  Moravia,  and 

"  In  MollJ^re's  Le  Bourffeoia  Gentilhomme. 
»•  In  Moliftre's  L'Amour  M6decin. 


MACAULAY  353 

fights  battles  in  December.  The  whole  system  of  his 
tactics  is  monstrously  incorrect."  The  world  is  of  opin- 
ion, in  spite  of  critics  like  these,  that  the  end  of  fencing- 
is  to  hit,  that  the  end  of  medicine  is  to  cure,  that  the 
end  of  war  is  to  conquer,  and  that  those  means  are  the 
most  correct  which  best  accomplish  the  ends. 

And  has  poetry  no  end,  no  eternal  and  immutable  prin- 
ciples? Is  poetry  like  heraldry,  mere  matter  of  arbitrary 
regulation?  The  heralds  tell  us  that  certain  scutcheons 
and  bearings  denote  certain  conditions,  and  that  to  put 
colors  on  colors,  or  metals  on  metals,  is  false  blazonry. 
If  all  this  were  reversed,  if  every  coat  of  arms  in  Europe 
were  new  fashioned,  if  it  were  decreed  that  or  should 
never  be  placed  but  on  argent,  or  argent  but  on  or,  that 
illegitimacy  should  be  denoted  by  a  lozenge,  and  widow- 
hood by  a  bend,  the  new  science  would  be  just  as  good 
as  the  old  science,  because  both  the  new  and  the  old 
would  be  good  for  nothing.  The  mummery  of  Portecullis 
and  Rouge  Dragon,^*  as  it  has  no  other  value  than  that 
which  caprice  has  assigned  to  it,  may  well  submit  to  any 
laws  which  caprice  may  impose  upon  it.  But  it  is  not 
so  with  that  great  imitative  art,  to  the  power  of  which 
all  ages,  the  rudest  and  the  most  enlightened,  bear  witness. 
Since  its  first  great  masterpieces  were  produced,  every- 
thing that  is  changeable  in  this  world  has  been  changed. 
Civilization  has  been  gained,  lost,  gained  again.  Reli- 
gions, and  languages,  and  forms  of  government,  and 
usages  of  private  life,  and  modes  of  thinking,  all  have 
undergone  a  succession  of  revolutions.  Everything  has 
passed  away  but  the  great  features  of  nature  and  the 
heart  of  man,  and  the  miracles  of  that  art  of  which  it  is 
the  office  to  reflect  back  the  heart  of  man  and  the  features 
of  nature.  Those  two  strange  old  poems,  the  wonder  of 
ninety  generations,  still  retain  all  their  freshness.  They 
still  command  the  veneration  of  minds  enriched  by  the 
literature  of  many  nations  and  ages.  They  are  still,  even 
in  wretched  translations,  the  delight  of  schoolboys.  Hav- 
ing survived  ten  thousand  capricious  fashions,  having  seen 
successive  codes  of  criticism  become  obsolete,  they  still  re- 
main to  us,  immortal  with  the  immortality  of  truth,  the 

>«  Officers  of  Nthe  English  College  of  Heralds. 


364  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

same  when  perused  in  the  study  of  an  English  scholar 
as  when  they  were  first  chanted  at  the  banquets  of  the 
Ionian  princes. 

Poetry  is,  as  was  said  more  than  two  thousand  years 
ago,  imitation.  It  is  an  art  analogous  in  many  respects 
to  the  art  of  painting,  sculpture,  and  acting.  The  imi- 
tations of  the  painter,  the  sculptor,  and  the  actor,  are  in- 
deed, within  certain  limits,  more  perfect  than  those  of 
the  poet.  The  machinery  which  the  poet  employs  consists 
merely  of  words;  and  words  cannot,  even  when  employed 
by  such  an  artist  as  Homer  or  Dante,  present  to  the  mind 
images  of  visible  objects  quite  so  lively  and  exact  as 
those  which  we  carry  away  from  looking  on  the  works 
of  the  brush  and  the  chisel.  But  on  the  other  hand,  the 
range  of  poetry  is  infinitely  wider  than  that  of  any  other 
imitative  art,  or  than  that  of  all  the  other  imitative  arts 
together.  The  sculptor  can  imitate  only  form ;  the  painter 
only  form  and  color;  the  actor — until  the  poet  supplies 
him  with  words — only  form,  color,  and  motion.  Poetry 
holds  the  outer  world  in  common  with  the  other  arts; 
the  heart  of  man  is  the  province  of  poetry  and  of  poetry 
alone.  The  painter,  the  sculptor,  and  the  actor  can 
exhibit  no  more  of  human  passion  and  character  than 
that  small  portion  which  overflows  into  the  gesture  and 
the  face,  always  an  imperfect,  often  a  deceitful,  sign  of 
that  which  is  within.  The  deeper  and  more  complex  parts 
of  human  nature  can  be  exhibited  by  means  of  words 
alone.  Thus  the  objects  of  the  imitation  of  poetry  are 
the  whole  external  and  the  whole  internal  universe,  the 
face  of  nature,  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  man  as  he 
is  in  himself,  man  as  he  appears  in  society,  all  things 
which  really  exist,  all  things  of  which  we  can  form  an 
image  in  our  minds  by  combining  together  parts  of 
things  which  really  exist.  The  domain  of  this  imperial 
art  is  commensurate  with  the  imaginative  faculty. 

An  art  essentially  imitative  ought  not,  surely,  to  be 
subjected  to  rules  which  tend  to  make  its  imitations  less 
perfect  than  they  otherwise  would  be;  and  those  who 
obey  such  rules  ought  to  be  called,  not  correct,  but  incor- 
rect artists.  The  true  way  to  judge  of  the  rules  by  which 
English  poetry  was  governed  during  the  last  century  is 
to  look  at  the  effects  which  they  produced. 


MACAULAY  355 

It  was  in  1780  that  Jdhnson  completed  his  Lives  of 
the  Poets.  He  tells  us  in  that  work  that  since  the  time 
of  Dryden  English  poetry  had  shown  no  tendency  to  re- 
lapse into  its  original  savageness,  that  its  language  had 
been  refined,  its  numbers  tuned,  and  its  sentiments  im- 
proved. It  may  perhaps  be  doubted  whether  the  nation 
had  any  great  reason  to  exult  in  the  refinements  and  im- 
provements which  gave  it  Douglas  ^^  for  Othello,  and  The 
Triumphs  of  Temper  ^'  for  The  Fairy  Queen.  It  was  dur- 
ing the  thirty  years  which  preceded  the  appearance  of 
Johnson's  Lives  that  the  diction  and  versification  of  Eng- 
lish poetry  were,  in  the  sense  in  which  the  word  is  com- 
monly used,  most  correct.  Those  thirty  years  are,  as  re- 
spects poetry,  the  most  deplorable  part  of  our  literary 
history.  They  have  indeed  bequeathed  to  us  scarcely  any 
poetry  which  deserves  to  be  remembered.  Two  or  three 
hundred  lines  of  Gray,  twice  as  many  of  Goldsmith,  a  few 
stanzas  of  Beattie  and  Collins,  a  few  strophes  of  Mason, 
and  a  few  clever  prologues  and  satires,  were  the  master- 
pieces of  this  age  of  consummate  excellence.  They  may 
all  be  printed  in  one  volume,  and  that  volume  would  be 
by  no  means  a  volume  of  extraordinary  merit.  It  would 
contain  no  poetry  of  the  very  highest  class,  and  little 
which  could  be  placed  very  high  in  the  second  class.  The 
Paradise  Regained  or  Comus  would  outweigh  it  all. 

At  last,  when  poetry  had  fallen  into  such  utter  decay 
that  Mr.  Hayley  was  thought  a  great  poet,  it  began  to 
appear  that  the  excess  of  the  evil  was  about  to  work  the 
cure.  Men  became  tired  of  an  insipid  conformity  to  a 
standard  which  derived  no  authority  from  nature  or 
reason.  A  shallow  criticism  had  taught  them  to  ascribe 
a  superstitious  value  to  the  spurious  correctness  of 
poetasters.  A  deeper  criticism  brought  them  back  to  the 
true  correctness  of  the  first  great  masters.  The  eternal 
laws  of  poetry  regained  their  power,  and  the  temporary 
fashions  which  had  superseded  those  laws  went  after  the 
wig  of  Lovelace  and  the  hoop  of  Clarissa. 

"A  trajredy  by  John  Home,  1756. 
>«A  poem  by  William  Hayley,  1781. 


356  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

THE  COMEDY  OF  THE  RESTORATION 
Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 

[This  is  a  portion  of  Macaulay's  review  of  Leigh  Hunt's 
edition  of  the  Dramatic  Works  of  Wycherley,  Congreve,  etc., 
which  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  for  July,  1841.  In 
part  it  is  a  reply  to  Lamb's  plea  for  the  comedy  of  the 
Restoration  (see  pages  193-97).] 

We  have  said  that  we  think  the  present  publica- 
tion perfectly  justifiable.  But  we  can  by  no  means  agree 
with  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  who  seems  to  hold  that  there  is 
little  or  no  ground  for  the  charge  of  immorality  so  often 
brought  against  the  literature  of  the  Restoration.  We 
do  not  blame  him  for  not  bringing  to  the  judgment-seat 
the  merciless  rigor  of  Lord  Angelo,^  but  we  really  think 
that  such  flagitious  and  impudent  offenders  as  those  who 
are  now  at  the  bar  deserved  at  least  the  gentle  rebuke 
of  Escalus.  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  treats  the  whole  matter  a 
little  too  much  in  the  easy  style  of  Lucio ;  and  perhaps  his 
exceeding  lenity  disposes  us  to  be  somewhat  too  severe. 

And  yet  it  is  not  easy  to  be  too  severe.  For  in  truth 
this  part  of  our  literature  is  a  disgrace  to  our  language 
and  our  national  character.  It  is  clever,  indeed,  and  very 
entertaining;  but  it  is,  in  the  most  emphatic  sense  of 
the  words,  "earthly,  sensual,  devilish."  Its  indecency, 
though  perpetually  such  as  is  condemned  not  less  by  the 
rules  of  good  taste  than  by  those  of  morality,  is  not,  in 
our  opinion,  so  disgraceful  a  fault  as  its  singularly  in- 
human spirit.  We  have  here  Belial,  not  as  when  he  in- 
spired Ovid  and  Ariosto,  "graceful  and  humane,"  but 
with  the  iron  eye  and  cruel  sneer  of  Mephistopheles.  We 
find  ourselves  in  a  world  in  which  the  ladies  are  like  very 
profligate,  impudent,  and  unfeeling  men,  and  in  which 
the  men  are  too  bad  for  any  place  but  Pandemonium  or 
Norfolk  Island.*  We  are  surrounded  by  foreheads  of 
bronze,  hearts  like  the  nether  millstone,  and  tongues  set 
on  fire  of  hell. 

*  In  Shakespeare's  Measure  for  Uedsure;  ao  also  Escalus  and 
Luclo. 

*  A  penal  colony  east  of  Anstralla. 


MACAULAY  357 

Diyden  defended  or  excused  his  own  offences  and  those 
of  his  contemporaries  by  pleading  the  example  of  the 
earlier  English  dramatists,  and  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  seems 
to  think  that  there  is  force  in  the  plea.  We  altogether 
differ  from  his  opinion.  The  crime  charged  is  not  mere 
coarseness  of  expression.  The  terms  which  are  delicate 
in  one  age  become  gross  in  the  next.  The  diction  of  the 
English  version  of  the  Pentateuch  is  sometimes  such  as 
Addison  would  not  have  ventured  to  imitate;  and  Addi- 
son, the  standard  of  moral  purity  in  his  own  age,  used 
many  phrases  which  are  now  proscribed.  Whether  a  thing 
shall  be  designated  by  a  plain  noun  substantive  or  by  a 
circumlocution  is  mere  matter  of  fashion.  Morality  is 
not  at  all  interested  in  the  question.  But  morality  is 
deeply  interested  in  this,  that  what  is  immoral  shall  not 
be  presented  to  the  imagination  of  the  young  and  sus- 
ceptible in  constant  connection  with  what  is  attractive. 
For  every  person  who  has  observed  the  operation  of  the 
law  of  association  in  his  own  mind  and  in  the  minds  of 
others  knows  that  whatever  is  constantly  presented  to 
the  imagination  in  connection  with  what  is  attractive 
will  itself  become  attractive.  There  is  undoubtedly  a 
great  deal  of  indelicate  writing  in  Fletcher  and  Massinger, 
and  more  than  might  be  wished  even  in  Ben  Jonson  and 
Shakespeare,  who  are  comparatively  pure.  But  it  is 
impossible  to  trace  in  their  plays  any  systematic  attempt 
to  associate  vice  with  those  things  which  men  value  most 
and  desire  most,  and  virtue  with  everything  ridiculous 
and  degrading.  And  such  a  systematic  attempt  we  do  find 
in  the  whole  dramatic  literature  which  followed  the  return 
of  Charles  the  Second.  We  will  take,  as  an  instance  of 
what  we  mean,  a  single  subject  of  the  highest  importance 
to  the  happiness  of  mankind, — conjugal  fidelity.  We  can 
at  present  hardly  call  to  mind  a  single  English  play  writ- 
ten before  the  Civil  War  in  which  the  character  of  a 
seducer  of  married  women  is  represented  in  a  favorable 
light.  We  remember  many  plays  in  which  such  persons 
are  baffled,  exposed,  covered  with  derision,  and  instilted  by 
triumphant  husbands.  Such  is  the  fate  of  Falstaff,  with 
all  his  wit  and  knowledge  of  the  world.  Such  is  the  fate 
of  Brisac  in  Fletcher's  Elder  Brother,  and  of  Ricardo  and 
Hbaldo  in  Massinger's  Picture.     Sometimes,  as   in  The 


858  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Fatal  Dowry  •  and  Love's  Cruelty,*  the  outraged  honor  of 
families  is  repaired  by  a  bloody  revenge.  If  now  and  then 
the  lover  is  represented  as  an  accomplished  man,  and  the 
husband  as  a  person  of  weak  or  odious  character,  this  only 
makes  the  triumph  of  female  virtue  the  more  signal,  as  in 
Jonson's  Celia  and  Mrs.  Fitzdottrel,^  and  in  Fletcher's 
Maria.*  In  general  we  will  venture  to  say  that  the  drama- 
tists of  the  age  of  Elizabeth  and  James  the  First  either 
treat  the  breach  of  the  marriage  vow  as  a  serious  crime, 
or,  if  they  treat  it  as  a  matter  for  laughter,  turn  the  laugh 
against  the  gallant. 

On  the  contrary,  during  the  forty  years  which  followed 
the  Restoration,  the  whole  body  of  the  dramatists  in- 
variably represent  adultery,  we  do  not  say  as  a  peccadillo, 
we  do  not  say  as  an  error  which  the  violence  of  passion 
may  excuse,  but  as  the  calling  of  a  fine  gentleman,  as  a 
grace  without  which  his  character  would  be  imperfect.  It 
is  as  essential  to  his  breeding  and  to  his  place  in  society 
that  he  should  make  love  to  the  wives  of  his  neighbors 
as  that  he  should  know  French  or  that  he  should  have 
a  sword  at  his  side.  In  all  this  there  is  no  passion,  and 
scarcely  anything  that  can  be  called  preference.  The 
hero  intrigues  just  as  he  wears  a  wig,  because  if  he  did 
not  he  would  be  a  queer  fellow,  a  city  prig, — perhaps  a 
Puritan.  All  the  agreeable  qualities  are  always  given 
to  the  gallant.  All  the  contempt  and  aversion  are  the 
portion  of  the  unfortunate  husband.  Take  Dryden,  for 
example;  and  compare  Woodall  with  Brainsick,  or  Lorenzo 
with  Gomez.'^  Take  Wycherley;  and  compare  Horner  with 
Pinchwif e.*  Take  Vanbrugh ;  and  compare  Constant  with 
Sir  John  Brute.^  Take  Farquhar;  and  compare  Archer 
with  Squire  Sullen.^"  Take  Congreve;  and  compare  Bell- 
mour  with  Fondlewife,  Careless  with  Sir  Paul  Plyant, 
or  Scandal  with  Foresight.^^  In  all  these  cases,  and  in 
many  more  which  might  be  named,  the  dramatist  does 

» By  Masslnger  and  Field. 

«By  Shirley. 

» Cella  In  Volpone;  Mrs.  Fitzdottrel  in  The  Devil  is  an  Asa. 

» In  The  Tamer  Tamed. 

*  In  Llmberham  and  The  Spanish  Friar. 

*  In  The  Country  Wife. 

*  In  The  Provoked  Wife. 

>«  In  The  Beaux  Stratagem. 

"  In  The  Old  Bachelor,  The  Double  Dealer,  and  Love  for  Love. 


MACAULAY  359 

his  best  to  make  the  person  who  commits  the  injury  grace- 
ful, sensible,  and  spirited,  and  the  person  who  suffers  it 
a  fool,  or  a  tyrant,  or  both. 

Mr.  Charles  Lamb,  indeed,  attempted  to  set  up  a  de- 
fence for  this  way  of  writing.  The  dramatists  of  the 
latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century  are  not,  according 
to  him,  to  be  tried  by  the  standard  of  morality  which 
exists,  and  ought  to  exist,  in  real  life.  Their  world  is 
a  conventional  world.  Their  heroes  and  heroines  belong, 
not  to  England,  not  to  Christendom,  but  to  an  Utopia  of 
gallantry,  to  a  fairy  land,  where  the  Bible  and  Bum's 
Justice  "  are  unknown,  where  a  prank  which  on  this  earth 
would  be  rewarded  with  the  pillory  is  merely  matter  for 
a  peal  of  elvish  laughter.  A  real  Homer,  a  real  Care- 
less, would,  it  is  admitted,  be  exceedingly  bad  men.  But 
to  predicate  morality  or  immorality  of  the  Homer  of 
Wycherley  and  the  Careless  of  Congreve  is  as  absurd  as 
it  would  be  to  arraign  a  sleeper  for  his  dreams.  "They 
belong  to  the  regions  of  pure  comedy,  where  no  cold 
moral  reigns.  When  we  are  among  them  we  are  among 
a  chaotic  people.  We  are  not  to  judge  them  by  our 
usages.  No  reverend  institutions  are  insulted  by  their 
proceedings,  for  they  have  none  among  them.  No  peace 
of  families  is  violated,  for  no  family  ties  exist  among 
them.  There  is  neither  right  nor  wrong,  gratitude  or  its 
opposite,  claim  or  duty,  paternity  or  sonship."  " 

This  is,  we  believe,  a  fair  summary  of  Mr.  Lamb's 
doctrine.  We  are  sure  that  we  do  not  wish  to  represent 
him  unfairly.  For  we  admire  his  genius;  we  love  the 
kind  nature  which  appears  in  all  his  writings;  and  we 
cherish  his  memory  almost  as  much  as  if  we  had  known 
him  personally.  But  we  must  plainly  say  that  his  argu- 
ment,   though   ingenious,    is    altogether   sophistical. 

Of  course  we  perfectly  understand  that  it  is  possible 
for  a  writer  to  create  a  conventional  world  in  which 
things  forbidden  by  the  Decalogue  and  the  Statute  Book 
shall  be  lawful,  and  yet  that  the  exhibition  may  be 
harmless,  or  even  edifying.  For  example,  we  suppose 
that  the  most  austere  critics  would  not  accuse  Fenelon 
of  impiety  and  immorality  on  account  of  his  Telemachus 

"An  18th  century  manual  for  Justices  of  the  peace. 
"See  p.  196. 


360  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

and  bis  Dialogues  of  the  Dead.  In  Telemachus  and  the 
Dialogues  of  the  Dead  we  have  a  false  religion,  and  con- 
sequently a  morality  which  is  in  some  point  incorrect. 
We  have  a  right  and  a  wrong  differing  from  the  right 
and  the  wrong  of  real  life.  It  is  represented  as  the  first 
duty  of  men  to  pay  honor  to  Jove  and  Minerva.  Philo- 
cles,  who  employs  his  leisure  in  making  graven  images  of 
these  deities,  is  extolled  for  his  piety  in  a  way  which 
contrasts  singularly  with  the  expressions  of  Isaiah  on  the 
same  subject.  The  dead  are  judged  by  Minos,  and  re- 
warded with  lasting  happiness  for  actions  which  Fenelon 
would  have  been  the  first  to  pronounce  splendid  sins. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  Mr.  Southey's  Mahommedan 
and  Hindoo  heroes  and  heroines.  In  Thalaba,  to  speak 
in  derogation  of  the  Arabian  impostor  is  blasphemy:  to 
drink  wine  is  a  crime:  to  perform  ablutions  and  to  pay 
honor  to  the  holy  cities  are  works  of  merit.  In  The  Curse 
of  Kehama,  Kailyal  is  commended  for  her  devotion  to 
the  statue  of  Mariataly,  the  goddess  of  the  poor.  But 
certainly  no  person  will  accuse  Mr.  Southey  of  having 
promoted  or  intended  to  promote  either  Islamism  or 
Brahminism. 

It  is  easy  to  see  why  the  conventional  worlds  of  Fenelon 
and  Mr.  Southey  are  unobjectionable.  In  the  first  place, 
they  are  utterly  unlike  the  real  world  in  which  we  live. 
The  state  of  society,  the  laws  even  of  the  physical  world, 
are  so  different  from  those  with  which  we  are  familiar, 
that  we  cannot  be  shocked  at  finding  the  morality  also 
very  different.  But  in  truth  the  morality  of  these  con- 
ventional worlds  differs  from  the  morality  of  the  real 
world  only  in  points  where  there  is  no  danger  that  the 
real  world  will  ever  go  wrong.  The  generosity  and  docil- 
ity of  Telemachus,  the  fortitude,  the  modesty,  the  filial 
tenderness  of  Kailyal,  are  virtues  of  all  ages  and  nations. 
And  there  was  very  little  danger  that  the  Dauphin  would 
worship  Minerva,  or  that  an  English  damsel  would  dance, 
with  a  bucket  on  her  head,  before  the  statue  of  Mariataly. 
The  case  is  widely  different  with  what  Mr.  Charles  Lamb 
calls  the  conventional  world  of  Wycherley  and  Congreve. 
Here  the  garb,  the  manners,  the  topics  of  conversation 
are  those  of  the  real  town  and  of  the  passing  day.  The 
hero    is   in   all   superficial   accomplishments   exactly   the 


MACAULAY  361 

fine  gentleman  whom  every  youth  in  the  pit  would  gladly 
resemble.  The  heroine  is  the  fine  lady  whom  every  youth 
in  the  pit  would  gladly  marry.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
some  place  which  is  as  well  known  to  the  audience  as 
their  own  houses, — in  St.  James's  Park,  or  Hyde  Park, 
or  Westminster  Hall.  The  lawyer  bustles  about  with 
his  bag,  between  the  Common  Pleas  and  the  Exchequer. 
The  Peer  calls  for  his  carriage  to  go  to  the  House  of 
Lords  on  a  private  bill.  A  hundred  little  touches  are 
employed  to  make  the  fictitious  world  appear  like  the 
actual  world.  And  the  immorality  is  of  a  sort  which 
never  can  be  out  of  date,  and  which  all  the  force  of 
religion,  law,  and  public  opinion  united  can  but  imper- 
fectly restrain. 

In  the  name  of  art,  as  well  as  in  the  name  of  virtue, 
we  protest  against  the  principle  that  the  world  of  pure 
comedy  is  one  into  which  no  moral  enters.  If  comedy 
be  an  imitation,  under  whatever  conventions,  of  real  life, 
how  is  it  possible  that  it  can  have  no  reference  to  the 
great  rule  which  directs  life,  and  to  feelings  which  are 
called  forth  by  every  incident  of  life?  If  what  Mr. 
Charles  Lamb  says  were  correct,  the  inference  would  be 
that  these  dramatists  did  not  in  the  least  understand  the 
first  principles  of  their  craft.  Pure  landscape  painting 
into  which  no  light  or  shade  enters,  pure  portrait  paint- 
ing into  which  no  expression  enters,  are  phrases  less  at 
variance  with  sound  criticism  than  pure  comedy  into 
which  no  moral  enters. 

But  it  is  not  the  fact  that  the  world  of  these  dramatists 
is  a  world  into  which  no  moral  enters.  Morality  con- 
stantly enters  into  that  world, — a  sound  morality,  and  an 
unsound  morality;  the  sound  morality  to  be  insulted,  de- 
rided, associated  with  everything  moan  and  hateful,  the 
unsound  morality  to  be  set  off  to  every  advantage,  and 
inculcated  by  all  methods,  direct  and  indirect.  It  is  not 
the  fact  that  none  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  conventional 
world  feel  reverence  for  sacred  institutions  and  family 
ties.  Fondlewife,  Pinchwife,  every  person,  in  short,  of 
narrow  understanding  and  disgusting  manners,  expresses 
that  reverence  strongly.  The  heroes  and  heroines,  too, 
have  a  moral  code  of  their  own, — an  exceedingly  bad  one, 
but  not,  as  Mr.   Charles  Lamb  seems  to  think,  a  code 


362  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

existing  only  in  the  imagination  of  dramatists.  It  is, 
on  the  contrary,  a  code  actually  received  and  obeyed  by 
great  numbers  of  people.  We  need  not  go  to  Utopia  or 
Fairyland  to  find  them.  They  are  near  at  hand.  Every 
night  some  of  them  cheat  at  the  hells  in  the  Quadrant, 
and  others  pace  the  Piazza  in  Covent  Garden.  Without 
flying  to  Nephelococcygia  ^*  or  to  the  court  of  Queen  Mab, 
we  can  meet  with  sharpers,  hard-hearted  bullies,  impu- 
dent debauchees,  and  women  worthy  of  such  paramours. 
The  morality  of  The  Country  Wife  and  The  Old  Bachelor 
is  the  morality,  not,  as  Mr.  Charles  Lamb  maintains,  of 
an  unreal  world,  but  of  a  world  which  is  a  great  deal 
too  real.  It  is  the  morality,  not  of  a  chaotic  people,  but 
of  low  town-rakes  and  of  those  ladies  whom  the  newspapers 
call  "dashing  Cyprians."  And  the  question  is  simply 
this:  whether  a  man  of  genius  who  constantly  and  syste- 
matically endeavors  to  make  this  sort  of  character  at- 
tractive, by  uniting  it  with  beauty,  grace,  dignity,  spirit, 
a  high  social  position,  popularity,  literature,  wit,  taste, 
knowledge  of  the  world,  brilliant  success  in  every  under- 
taking, does  or  does  not  make  an  ill  use  of  his  powers. 
We  own  that  we  are  unable  to  understand  how  this  ques- 
tion can  be  answered  in  any  way  but  one. 


CARICATURE  AND  REALISM 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 

[A  portion  of  Macaulay's  review  of  the  Diary  and  Letters 
of  Madame  d'Arblay;  it  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh  Review 
for  January,  1843.] 

There  is,  in  one  respect,  a  remarkable  analogy  between 
the  faces  and  the  minds  of  men.  No  two  faces  are  alike; 
and  yet  very  few  faces  deviate  very  widely  from  the  com- 
mon standard.  Among  the  eighteen  hundred  thousand 
human  beings  who  inhabit  London,  there  is  not  one  who 
could  be  taken  by  his  acquaintance  for  another;  yet  we 
may  walk  from  Paddington  to  Mile  End  without  seeing 

"  "Cuckootown  in  the  Clouds,"  a  city  in  The  Birds  of  Aris- 
tophanes. 


MACAULAY  363 

one  person  in  whom  any  feature  is  so  overcharged  that 
we  turn  round  to  stare  at  it.  An  infinite  number  of 
varieties  lies  between  limits  which  are  not  very  far 
asunder.  The  specimens  which  pass  those  limits  on 
either  side  form  a  very  small  minority. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  characters  of  men.  Here,  too, 
the  variety  passes  all  enumeration.  But  the  cases  in 
which  the  deviation  from  the  common  standard  is  strik- 
ing and  grotesque  are  very  few.  In  one  mind  avarice 
predominates;  in  another,  pride;  in  a  third,  love  of 
pleasure;  just  as  in  one  countenance  the  nose  is  the 
most  marked  feature,  while  in  others  the  chief  expres- 
sion lies  in  the  brow,  or  in  the  lines  of  the  mouth.  But 
there  are  very  few  countenances  in  which  nose,  brow,  and 
mouth  do  not  contribute,  though  in  unequal  degrees,  to 
the  general  effect;  and  so  there  are  very  few  characters 
in  which  one  overgrown  propensity  makes  all  others 
utterly  insignificant. 

It  is  evident  that  a  portrait-painter,  who  was  able  only 
to  represent  faces  and  figures  such  as  those  which  we  pay 
money  to  see  at  fairs,  would  not,  however  spirited  his 
execution  might  be,  take  rank  among  the  highest  artists. 
He  must  always  be  placed  below  those  who  have  skill 
to  seize  the  peculiarities  which  do  not  amount  to  deform- 
ity. The  slighter  those  peculiarities,  the  greater  is  the 
merit  of  the  limner  who  can  catch  them  and  transfer 
them  to  his  canvas.  To  paint  Daniel  Lambert  ^  or  the  liv- 
ing skeleton,  the  pig-faced  lady  or  the  Siamese  twins, 
80  that  nobody  can  mistake  them,  is  an  exploit  within  the 
reach  of  a  sign-painter.  A  third-rate  artist  might  give 
us  the  squint  of  Wilkes,  and  the  depressed  nose  and  pro- 
tuberant cheeks  of  Gibbon.  It  would  require  a  much 
higher  degree  of  skill  to  paint  two  such  men  as  Mr.  Can- 
ning and  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  so  that  nobody  who  had 
ever  seen  them  could  for  a  moment  hesitate  to  assign  each 
picture  to  its  original.  Here  the  mere  caricaturist  would 
be  quite  at  fault.  He  would  find  in  neither  face  anything 
on  which  he  could  lay  hold  for  the  purpose  of  making  a 
distinction.  Two  ample  bald  foreheads,  two  regular  pro- 
files, two  full  faces  of  the  same  oval  form,  would  baffle 

*  Celebrated  for  his  corpulency ;  died  1809. 


364  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

his  art;  and  he  would  be  reduced  to  the  miserable  shift 
of  writing  their  names  at  the  foot  of  his  picture.  Yet 
there  was  a  great  difference;  and  a  person  who  had  seen 
them  would  no  more  have  mistaken  one  of  them  for 
the  other,  than  he  would  have  mistaken  Mr.  Pitt  for  Mr. 
Fox.  But  the  difference  lay  in  delicate  lineaments  and 
shades,  reserved  for  pencils  of  a  rare  order. 

This  distinction  runs  through  all  the  imitative  arts. 
Foote's  2  mimicry  was  exquisitely  ludicrous,  but  it  was  all 
caricature.  He  could  take  off  only  some  strange  pecu- 
liarity, a  stammer  or  a  lisp,  a  Northumbrian  burr  or  an 
Irish  brogue,  a  stoop  or  a  shuffle.  "If  a  man,"  said 
Johnson,  "hops  on  one  leg,  Foote  can  hop  on  one  leg." 
Garrick,  on  the  other  hand,  could  seize  those  differences 
of  manner  and  pronunciation  which,  though  highly  char- 
acteristic, are  yet  too  slight  to  be  described.  Foote,  we 
have  no  doubt,  could  have  made  the  Haymarket  Theater 
shake  with  laughter  by  imitating  a  conversation  between 
a  Scotchman  and  a  Somersetshireman.  But  Garrick 
could  have  imitated  a  conversation  between  two  fashion- 
able men,  both  models  of  the  best  breeding, — Lord  Chester- 
field, for  example,  and  Lord  Albemarle, — so  that  no 
person  could  doubt  which  was  which,  although  no  person 
could  say  that,  in  any  point,  either  Lord  Chesterfield  or 
Lord  Albemarle  spoke  or  moved  otherwise  than  in  con- 
formity with  the  usages  of  the  best  society. 

The  same  distinction  is  found  in  the  drama  and  in  fic- 
titious narrative.  Highest  among  those  who  have  ex- 
hibited human  nature  by  means  of  dialogue,  stands 
Shakespeare.  His  variety  is  like  the  variety  of  nature, — 
endless  diversity,  scarcely  any  monstrosity.  The  char- 
acters of  which  he  has  given  us  an  impression,  as  vivid 
as  that  which  we  received  from  the  characters  of  our  own 
associates,  are  to  be  reckoned  by  scores.  Yet  in  all  these 
scores  hardly  one  character  is  to  be  found  which  deviates 
widely  from  the  common  standard,  and  which  we  should 
call  very  eccentric  if  we  met  it  in  real  life.  The  silly 
notion  that  every  man  has  one  ruling  passion,  and  that 
this  clue,  once  known,  unravels  all  the  mysteries  of  his 
conduct,  finds  no  countenance  in  the  plays  of  Shakes- 

» Samuel  Foote,   a  comedian   (1720-1777). 


MACAULAY  365 

peare.  There  man  appears  as  he  is,  made  up  of  a  crowd 
of  passions,  which  contend  for  the  mastery  over  him  and 
govern  him  in  turn.  What  is  Hamlet's  ruling  passion? 
Or  Othello's?  Or  Harry  the  Fifth's?  Or  Wolsey's?  Or 
Lear's?  Or  Shylock's?  Or  Benedick's?  Or  Macbeth's? 
Or  that  of  Cassius?  Or  that  of  Falconbridge  ?  But  we 
might  go  on  for  ever.  Take  a  single  example,  Shylock. 
Is  he  so  eager  for  money  as  to  be  indifferent  to  revenge? 
Or  so  eager  for  revenge  as  to  be  indifferent  to  money? 
Or  so  bent  on  both  together  as  to  be  indifferent  to  the 
honor  of  his  nation  and  the  law  of  Moses?  All  his  pro- 
pensities are  mingled  with  each  other,  so  that,  in  trying  to 
apportion  to  each  its  proper  part,  we  find  the  same  diffi- 
culty which  constantly  meets  us  in  real  life.  A  superficial 
critic  may  say  that  hatred  is  Shylock's  ruling  passion. 
But  how  many  passions  have  amalgamated  to  form  that 
hatred  ?  It  is  partly  the  result  of  wound*^  pride :  Antonio 
has  called  him  dog.  It  is  partly  the  result  of  covetous- 
ness:  Antonio  has  hindered  him  of  half  a  million;  and, 
when  Antonio  is  gone,  there  will  be  no  limit  to  the  gains 
of  usury.  It  is  partly  the  result  of  national  and  religious 
feeling:  Antonio  has  spit  on  the  Jewish  gaberdine,  and 
the  oath  of  revenge  has  been  sworn  by  the  Jewish  Sab- 
bath. We  might  go  through  all  the  characters  which 
we  have  mentioned,  and  through  fifty  more  in  the  same 
way;  for  it  is  the  constant  manner  of  Shakespeare  to 
represent  the  human  mind  as  lying,  not  under  the  abso- 
lute dominion  of  one  despotic  propensity,  but  under  a 
mixed  government,  in  which  a  hundred  powers  balance 
each  other.  Admirable  as  he  was  in  all  parts  of  his  art, 
we  most  admire  him  for  this,  that  while  he  has  left  us  a 
greater  number  of  striking  portraits  than  all  other 
dramatists  put  together,  he  has  scarcely  left  us  a  single 
caricature. 

Shakespeare  has  had  neither  equal  nor  second.  But, 
among  the  writers  who,  in  the  point  which  we  have 
noticed,  have  approached  nearest  to  the  manner  of  the 
great  master,  we  have  no  hesitation  in  placing  Jane 
Austen,  a  woman  of  whom  England  is  justly  proud.  She 
has  given  us  a  multitude  of  characters,  all,  in  a  certain 
sense,  commonplace,  all  such  as  we  meet  every  day.  Yet 
they  are  all  as  perfectly  discriminated  from  each  other 


366  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

as  if  they  were  the  most  eccentric  of  human  beings. 
There  are,  for  instance,  four  clergymen,  none  of  whom 
we  should  be  surprised  to  find  in  any  parsonage  in  the 
kingdom, — Mr.  Edward  Ferrars,  Mr.  Henry  Tilney,  Mr. 
Edmund  Bertram,  and  Mr.  Elton.^  They  are  all  speci- 
mens of  the  upper  part  of  the  middle  class.  They  have 
all  been  liberally  educated.  They  all  lie  under  the  re- 
straints of  the  same  sacred  profession.  They  are  all 
young.  They  are  all  in  love.  Not  one  of  them  has  any 
hobbyhorse,  to  use  the  phrase  of  Sterne.  Not  one  has 
a  ruling  passion,  such  as  we  read  of  in  Pope.  Who 
would  not  have  expected  them  to  be  insipid  likenesses  of 
each  other?  No  such  thing.  Harpagon  is  not  more  un- 
like to  Jourdain,*  Joseph  Surface  is  not  more  unlike  to 
Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger,'  than  every  one  of  Miss  Austen's 
young  divines  to  all  his  reverend  brethren.  And  almost 
all  this  is  done  by  touches  so  delicate  that  they  elude 
analysis,  that  they  defy  the  powers  of  description,  and 
that  we  know  them  to  exist  only  by  the  general  effect  to 
which  they  have  contributed. 

A  line  must  be  drawn,  we  conceive,  between  artists  of 
this  class  and  those  poets  and  novelists  whose  skill  lies 
in  the  exhibiting  of  what  Ben  Jonson  called  humors. 
The  words  of  Ben  are  so  much  to  the  purpose  that  we 
will  quote  them : 

When  some  one  peculiar  quality 
Doth  so  possess   a  man,  that  it   doth   draw 
All  his  affects,  his  spirits,  and  his  powers. 
In  their  confluxions  all  to  run  one  way. 
This  may  be  truly  said  to  be  a  humour.* 

There  are  undoubtedly  persons  in  whom  humors  such 
as  Ben  describes  have  attained  a  complete  ascendency. 
The  avarice  of  Elwes,  the  insane  desire  of  Sir  Egerton 
Brydges  for  a  barony  to  which  he  had  no  more  right 
than  to  the  crown  of  Spain,  the  malevolence  which  long 
meditation  on  imaginary  wrongs  generated  in  the  gloomy 

» In  Sense  and  Sensibility,  Northangvr  Abbey,  Mansfield  Park, 
and  Emma,  respectively. 

*  In  Moll6re'8  L'Avare  and  Le  Bourgeois  GrntUhommc. 
»  In  Sheridan's  The  School  for  Scandal  and  The  Rivals. 

*  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour,  Induction. 


MACAULAY  367 

mind  of  Bellingham,  are  instances.  The  feeling  which 
animated  Clarkson  and  other  virtuous  men  against  the 
slave  trade  and  slavery  is  an  instance  of  a  more  honor- 
able kind. 

Seeing  that  s\jch  humors  exist,  we  cannot  deny  that 
they  are  proper  subjects  for  the  imitations  of  art.  But 
we  conceive  that  the  imitation  of  such  humors,  however 
skilful  and  amusing,  is  not  an  achievement  of  the  highest 
order;  and,  as  such  humors  are  rare  in  real  life,  they 
ought,  we  conceive,  to  be  sparingly  introduced  into  works 
which  profess  to  be  pictures  of  real  life.  Nevertheless,  a 
writer  may  show  so  much  genius  in  the  exhibition  of 
these  humors  as  to  be  fairly  entitled  to  a  distinguished 
and  permanent  rank  among  classics.  The  chief  seats  of 
all,  however,  the  places  on  the  dais  and  under  the  canopy, 
are  reserved  for  the  few  who  have  excelled  in  the  difficult 
art  of  portraying  characters  in  which  no  single  feature 
is  extravagantly  overcharged. 

If  we  have  expounded  the  law  soundly,  we  can  have 
no  difficulty  in  applying  it  to  the  particular  case  before 
us.  Madame  d'Arblay  has  left  us  scarcely  anything  but 
humors.  Almost  every  one  of  her  men  and  women  has 
some  one  propensity  developed  to  a  morbid  degree.  In 
Cecilia,  for  example,  Mr.  Delvile  never  opens  his  lips 
vithout  some  allusion  to  his  own  birth  and  station;  or 
Mr.  Briggs,  without  some  allusion  to  the  hoarding  of 
money;  or  Mr.  Hobson,  without  betraying  the  self-indul- 
gence and  self-importance  of  a  purse-proud  upstart;  or 
Mr.  Simkins,  without  uttering  some  sneaking  remark 
for  the  purpose  of  currying  favor  with  his  customers;  or 
Mr.  Meadows,  without  expressing  apathy  and  weariness 
of  life;  or  Mr.  Albany,  without  declaiming  about  the  vices 
of  the  rich  and  the  misery  of  the  poor;  or  Mrs.  Belfield, 
without  some  indelicate  eulogy  on  her  son ;  or  Lady  Mar- 
garet, without  indicating  jealousy  of  her  husband.  Mor- 
rice  is  all  skipping,  officious  impertinence,  Mr.  Gosport 
all  sarcasm.  Lady  Honoria  all  lively  prattle,  Miss  LaroUes 
all  silly  prattle.  If  ever  Madame  d'Arblay  aimed  at  more, 
we  do  not  think  that  she  succeeded  well. 

We  are,  therefore,  forced  to  refuse  to  Madame  d'Arblay 
a.  place  in  the  highest  rank  of  art ;  but  we  cannot  deny 
that,  in  the  rank  to  which  she  belonged,  she  had  few  equals, 


368  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

and  scarcely  any  superior.  The  variety  of  humors  which 
is  to  be  found  in  her  novels  is  immense;  and  though  the 
talk  of  each  person  separately  is  monotonous,  the  general 
effect  is  not  monotony,  but  a  very  lively  and  agreeable 
diversity.  Her  plots  are  rudely  constructed  and  improb- 
able, if  we  consider  them  in  themselves.  But  they  are 
admirably  framed  for  the  purpose  of  exhibiting  striking 
groups  of  eccentric  characters,  each  governed  by  his  own 
peculiar  whim,  each  talking  his  own  peculiar  jargon, 
and  each  bringing  out  by  oppositing  the  oddities  of  all 
the  rest.  We  will  give  one  example  out  of  many  which 
occur  to  us.  All  probability  is  violated  in  order  to  bring 
Mr.  Delvile,  Mr.  Briggs,  Mr.  Hobson,  and  Mr.  Albany 
into  a  room  together.  But  when  we  have  them  there, 
we  soon  forget  probability  in  the  exquisitely  ludicrous 
effect  which  is  produced  by  the  conflict  of  four  old  fools, 
each  raging  with  a  monomania  of  his  own,  each  talking 
a  dialect  of  his  own,  and  each  inflaming  all  the  others 
anew  every  time  he  opens  his  mouth. 


SPENSER  AND  HIS  CRITICS 

John  Wilson 

[This  selection  is  an  abbreviation  of  one  of  a  series  of 
garrulous  appreciative  papers  on  Spenser  which  appeared  in 
Blackwood's  Magazine, — the  present  one  in  September,  1834, — 
under  Wilson's  pen-name  of  "Christopher  North."  The  open- 
ing sentences  refer  to  Thomas  Warton's  work  called  Obser- 
vations on  the  Fairy  Queen,  published  1754.] 

All  honor  to  the  memory  of  Tom  Warton! — all  honor 
and  all  love.  He  was  a  poet  as  well  as  an  antiquary, 
and  understood  Spenser  far  better  than  he  thought;  and 
had  he  not  had  the  fear  of  Aristotle  before  his  eyes,  and 
an  awe  in  his  soul,  not  too  profound — for  that  was  im- 
possible— ^but  habitual  rather  than  reflective,  for  the 
Greek  and  the  Roman  genius — the  Classics — he  would 
have  left  unsaid  many  questionable,  many  important,  and 
many  untrue  sayings  (vet  has  he  said  many  that  are 
most  true)  about  the  Faerie  Queene.  He  was  in  his  day, 
and  is  now,  one  of  the  brightest  ornaments,  the  greatest 


WILSON  369 

glories,  of  Oxford,  of  her  whom  Lord  Brougham  (not  in 
the  Edinhwrgh  Review)  rightly  calls  that  "old,  renowned, 
and  famous  university."  He  wonders  to  find  Ariosto, 
many  years  after  the  Revival  of  Letters,  "rejecting  truth 
for  magic,  and  preferring  the  ridiculous  and  incoherent 
excursions  of  Boiardo  to  the  propriety  and  uniformity  of 
the  Grecian  and  Roman  models."  Propriety  and  uni- 
formity I  You  must  take  the  terms  in  an  enlarged  sense 
indeed,  before  you  can  justly  apply  them  to  the  adventures 
of  Ulysses.  And  was  not  Medea  an  enchantress,  as  well 
as  Calypso  and  Ciree?  Beni,  he  says,  one  of  the  most 
celebrated  critics  of  the  sixteenth  century,  was  still  so 
infatuated  with  a  fondness  for  the  old  Provencal  vein 
that  he  ventured  to  write  a  regular  dissertation  in  which 
he  compares  Ariosto  and  Homer.  And  why  not?  There 
are  in  the  Ariosto  of  the  South  and  in  the  Ariosto  of  the 
North — ^you  know  whom  Byron  so  designated  ^ — as  fine 
things  as  in  Homer.  They  are  Homeric.  Warton  speaks 
contemptuously  of  the  unnatural  events  of  the  romantic 
school  of  Provengal  bards, — the  machinations  of  imagi- 
nary beings  and  adventures,  entertaining  only  as  they 
were  improbable, — and  wonders  why,  when  the  works  of 
Homer  and  Aristotle  were  restored  and  studied  in  Italy, 
and  every  species  of  literature  at  last  emerged  from  the 
depths  of  Gothic  ignorance  and  barbarity,  poets  followed 
not  the  example  and  precept  of  antiquity,  in  justness  of 
thought  and  design,  and  the  decorum  of  nature.  The 
answer  is  plain  and  pleasant — because  original  genius  is 
not  imitative  of  models,  however  admirable,  and,  inspired 
by  what  is  old,  invents  what  is  new — "alike,  but  oh,  how 
different!"  .  .  .  Ariosto,  with  all  his  extravagances — sad 
to  say — was  preferred  by  the  Italians  to  Tasso,  who  "com- 
posed his  poem  in  some  measure  on  a  regular  plan." 
The  genius  of  both  was,  is,  and  ever  will  be  justly,  and 
raptly,  admired  by  all  civilized  men;  for  there  is  truth 
in  magic;  strangest  and  wildest  events  are  natural,  or 
may  be  made  to  seem  so, — which  is  all  the  same;  the 
machinations  of  imaginary  beings  rule  all  the  characters 
and  events  in  the  Iliad,  even  more  than  in  the  Odyssey, — 
adventures,  not  only  improbable  but  repugnant  to  reason, 

*  Scott   (In  Childc  Harold,  canto  iv,  stanza  40). 


370  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

become  sworn  articles  in  the  creed  of  Fancy's  faith;  and 
the  "decorum  which  nature  dictates"  Nature  herself  re- 
joices to  give  to  the  winds.  Genius,  heing  familiar  with 
what  Warton,  inconsistently  with  his  own  fine  fancy, 
calls  the  ill^itimate  and  romantic  manner  of  composi- 
tion introduced  and  exhibited  by  the  Provencal  bards, 
kindled  into  higher  and  stronger  flame  at  the  inspiring 
touch  of  the  old  Greek  fire  that  had  smouldered  for  so 
many  ages  beneath  the  ruins  Time  had  made,  and  again 
burst  forth  into  day  from  {he  dust.  But  Tasso  and 
Ariosto,  favorites  of  Nature  and  confident  in  her  love, 
too  deeply  felt  their  power  to  deign  to  follow  afar  off; 
and  all  followers,  however  near  they  may  think  them- 
selves, or  may  be  thought,  lag  behind  the  guiding  stars, — 
and  yet,  remote  as  they  are,  are  eclipsed  by  the  very 
luminaries  from  which  in  vain  they  seek  to  draw  their 
light. 

Such  was  the  prevailing  taste,  continues  Warton,  when 
Spenser  projected  his  Faerie  Queene,  "a  poem  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  practice  of  Ariosto,  was  to  consist  of  alle- 
gories, enchantments,  and  romantic  expeditions,  conducted 
by  knights,  giants,  magicians,  and  fictitious  beings.  It 
may  he  urged  that  Spenser  made  an  unfortunate  choice, 
and  discovered  hut  little  judgment!"  Anything  may  be 
urged,  and  the  more  foolish  the  better;  it  may  be  urged 
that  Milton  made  an  unfortunate  choice,  and  discovered 
but  little  judgment,  in  Paradise  Lost, — and  that  Shakes- 
peare was  culpable  beyond  pardon  in  having  imagined 
Lear;  for  there  is  nothing  like  that  epic,  or  that  tragedy, 
in  Homer  or  iEschylus.  As  for  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  'tis  mere  lunacy;  and  Macbeth  is  a  madman, 
though  kept  in  countenance  by  Hercules  Furens.^  Yet 
the  critic  who  maunders  thus  oftener  writes  in  the  spirit 
of  a  true  creed,  and  even  at  the  close  of  this  very  para- 
graph says  truly  that  Spenser,  with  whom  Ariosto  was  a 
favorite,  was  naturally  led  "to  prefer  that  plan  which 
"would  admit  the  most  extensive  range  for  his  unlimited 
imagination."  In  other  words,  his  unlimited  imagina- 
tion looked  over  the  whole  field  of  human  life,  and  saw 
all  the  powers  and  passions  of  humanity  there  passing 

.  _«By  Baripides. 


WILSON  371 

to  and  fro;  and,  impersonating  them  all,  made  them  all 
visible,  giving  them  duties  to  perform,  and  triumphs  to 
achieve,  and  defeats  to  sustain, — and  furnishing  a  purga- 
tory for  the  erring,  a  hell  for  the  guilty,  and  a  heaven  for 
the  good,  entrancing  and  astounding  all  generations  by  the 
ineffable  beauty  of  the  Bower  of  Bliss,  and  the  inutter- 
able  dismalness  of  the  Cave  of  Despair! 

Warton  is  himself  again — though  not  always — in  his 
chapter  on  "Spenser's  Allegorical  Character."  Hume 
says  "that  Homer  copied  true  natural  manners,  which, 
however  rough  and  uncultivated,  will  always  form  an 
agreeable  and  interesting  picture,  but  the  pencil  of  the 
English  poet  [Spenser]  was  employed  in  drawing  the 
affectations  and  conceits  and  fopperies  of  chivalry."  ^ 
That  is  sad  stuff.  Was  Achilles  rough  and  uncultivated? 
And  lived  there  ever  on  this  earth  such  a  being?  No — 
never.  But,  not  to  dwell  on  that,  there  were  chivalrous 
ages,  just  as  there  were  heroic  ages ;  and  if  they  had  their 
affectations  and  conceits  and  fopperies,  you  will  seek  in 
vain  for  them  in  the  Faerie  Queene.  .  .  . 

Almost  all  Spenser's  critics,  however  encomiastic,  have 
strenuously  exerted  their  wits,  great  or  small,  to  find 
out  defects  and  faults  in  his  allegories,  and  in  the  gen- 
eral conduct  of  the  poem.  Sir  William  Temple  must 
have  been  hard  put  to  it  when  he  said  that,  though 
Spenser's  flights  of  song  were  very  noble  and  high,  yet 
his  moral  lay  so  bare  that  it  lost  the  effect.*  According 
to  this  authority,  your  moral  should  lie  cunningly  con- 
cealed, that  it  may  rise  unexpectedly  out  of  the  murk,  like 
a  ghost  in  its  grave-clothes,  and,  after  a  solemn  but  not 
very  intelligible  warning,  melt  away  into  the  nearest 
stanza.  Hughes,  in  his  sensible  Essay  on  Allegorical 
Poetry,^  thinks  that  a  moral  which  is  not  clear  is  next 
to  no  moral  at  all,  and  complains  bitterly  on  the  darkness 
of  many  of  the  ancient  fables.  Even  Lord  Bacon,  in  his 
Wisdom  of  the  Ancients,  has  often  failed  in  deciphering 
the  best  known  traditions  in  the  heathen  mythology, — 
many  of  which,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted,  were  allegorical; 
but  an  allegory,  says  Hughes,  somewhat  nettled,  "which 

•  See  the  Hiatory  of  England,  end  of  "Appendix  III." 

*  In   his  essay  "Of  Poetry." 

■  Published  in  his  edition  of  Spenser,  1715. 


372  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

is  not  clear  is  a  riddle";  and  conscious,  perhaps,  that  he 
was  himself  no  (Edipus,  he  is  intolerant  of  Sphinx.  He 
mentions  some  properties  which  seem  requisite  in  all  well- 
invented  fables  of  this  kind,  and  then  perpends,  in  a 
wiseacreish  pause,  to  consider  if  they  are  all  to  be  found 
always  in  the  Faerie  Queene.  One  is,  that  the  fable  shall 
everywhere  be  consistent  with  itself;  and  the  sage,  seem- 
ing to  shake  his  head,  finally  declares  that  "most  of  the 
allegories  in  the  Faerie  Queene  are  agreable  to  this  rule; 
but  in  one  of  his  other  poems  the  author  has  manifestly 
transgressed  it, — the  poem  I  mean  is  that  which  is  called 
*Prothalamion.'  In  this  the  two  brides  are  figured  by  two 
beautiful  swans,  sailing  down  the  river  Thames.  The 
allegory  breaks  before  the  reader  is  prepared  for  it;  and 
we  see  them,  at  their  landing,  in  their  true  shapes,  with- 
out knowing  how  this  sudden  change  is  effected."  It 
requires  small  shrewdness  to  know  how  the  sudden  change 
was  effected:  Spenser  merely  lifted  up  his  forefinger — 
and  the  swans  became  virgins,  and  the  virgins  brides; 
nay,  he  had  not  even  to  lift  up  his  little  finger,  for  the 
'^beauty  still  more  beauteous"  had  kept  for  so  long  a 
time  brightening  before  his  eyes  that  the  fairest  swans 
that  ever  floated  in  watery  light  grew  of  themselves,  with- 
out any  conscious  magic  on  his  part,  into  the  fairest  of 
England's  daughters;  and  then — 

Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  be  seene 
Two  gentle  knights  of  lovely  face  and  feature, 
Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  any  queene, 
With  gifts  of  wit  and  ornaments  of  nature. 

Fit  for  so  goodly  stature, 
That  like  the  twins  of  Jove  they  seemed  in  sight 
Which  deck  the  baldrick  of  the  heavens  bright; 
They  too,  forth  pacing  to  the  river's  side, 
Received  those  two  fair  brides,  their  loves'  delight. 

O,  ghost  of  Mr.  Hughes  1  as  you  love  us  for  speaking 
handsomely  of  that  gentleman  in  this  magazine,  revoke 
his  sentence  of  condemnation  on  this  close  of  the  "Pro- 
thalamion,"  and  puzzle  not  your  own  worthy  self  in  Hades 
with  vainly  attempting  to  see  into  the  mystery  of  that 
transfiguration;  for  pardon  us  for  saying  that  the  wisest 
specter  may  study   all  death  long,  without  catching  so 


WILSON  373 

much  as  a  faint  glimmer  of  the  spirit  of  the  Laws  of 
Dreams.  .  .  . 

While  [Spence]  •  allows  that  Spenser's  "invention  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  that  perhaps  ever  was,"  he  is  "sorry 
to  say  that  he  does  not  only  fall  short  of  that  simplicity 
and  propriety  which  is  so  remarkable  in  the  works  of 
the  ancients,  but  runs  now  and  then  into  thoughts  that 
are  quite  unworthy  of  so  great  a  genius."  He  is  even 
afraid  to  mention  them,  for  they  look  quite  gross  taken 
by  themselves;  but,  conquering  fear  and  repugnance,  he 
refers  to  "the  great  deal  of  apparatus  in  Spenser's  manner 
of  introducing  Pride" — drawn  in  a  chariot  by  six  differ- 
ent creatures,  Satan  being  the  charioteer:  Idleness  on  an 
ass,  Gluttony  on  a  hog.  Lechery  on  a  goat.  Avarice  on  a 
camel  laden  with  gold.  Envy  eating  a  toad  and  riding 
on  a  wolf,  and  Wrath,  with  a  firebrand  in  his  hand,  riding 
on  a  lion.  Satan's  equipage  is  beyond  the  comprehension 
of  Spence,  and  he  cannot  credit  his  own  eyes  as  he  sees 
old  Coachee  dashing  by,  six-in-hand,  without  troubling 
himself  to  pay  the  turnpikes,  "The  chief  fault  I  find 
with  it  is  that  it  is  too  complex  a  way  of  characterizing 
pride  in  general,  and  may  possibly  be  as  improper  in 
some  few  respects  as  it  is  redundant  in  others."  The 
description,  too,  of  the  dragon  killed  by  the  Knight  of 
the  Red  Cross,  in  the  last  canto  of  the  First  Book,  puzzles 
Polymetis.  The  tail  of  this  dragon,  he  exclaims  (holding 
up  his  hands  with  pen  behind  his  ear),  "wanted  very 
little  of  being  three  furlongs  in  length;  the  blood  that 
gushes  from  his  wound  is  enough  to  drive  a  water-mill, 
and  his  roar  is  like  that  of  a  hundred  hungry  lions." 
What  a  prodigious  monster!  Yet  he  might  have  remem- 
bered how  a  serpent  once  arrested  the  progrotss  of  a  Roman 
army, — that  Milton  represents  Satan  (who  was  not  only 
a  but  the  Great  Dragon)  as  "floating  many  a  rood"; 
while  in  justification  of  Spenser  we  should  have  simply 
pointed  to  the  Ram  of  Derby ,^  or  referred  Mr.  Spence  to 
Squire  More  of  Moreshall.^  .  .  .  The  faults  of  Spenser's 

•Joseph  Spence,  author  of  Polymrtiti  (1747),  a  work  on  clas- 
sical mythology  in  art  and  literature.  Hence  Wilson  dubs  him 
"Polymetis"  some  lines  further  on. 

^  A  ram  of  miraculous  dimensions,  etc.,  celebrated  in  old  Derby- 
shire ballads. 

•  The  hero  of  the  ballad  of  "The  Dragon  of  Wantley,"  found  ia 
Percy's  RcUquet. 


374  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

allegories — ^"under  the  third  general  head" — are  arranged 
by  this  precise  and  pompous  pedant  into  six  classes.  We 
should  murder  the  man  whom  we  could  prove  to  have 
arranged  under  the  "third  general  head"  of  the  faults  of 
Christopher  North,  six  classes  of  faults.  All  men  are  at 
liberty  to  call  them  "in  numbers  without  number  number- 
less," but  no  man  shall  with  impunity  arrange  them  into 
six. classes  under  the  third  general  head.  Curse  classifica- 
tion of  one's  crimes!  In  the  slump  they  leave  you  still 
human; — divided,  and  subdivided,  and  then  multiplied, 
not  the  likeness  of  a  dog.  So  fares  Spenser  the  poet  with 
Spence  the  arithmetician;  so  would  fare  William  Shakes- 
peare with  Joseph  Hume.^  He  jots  down  as  belonging  to 
class  second — general  head  third — "his  affixing  such  filthy 
ideas  to  some  of  his  personages  that  it  half  turns  one's 
stomach  to  read  his  account  of  them.  Such,  for  example, 
is  the  description  of  Error."  ^°  And  what  would  have  been 
the  harm  had  it  wholly  turned  Spence's  stomach?  To  a 
man  of  sedentary  habits  nothing  so  salutary  as  an  emetic. 
But  men's  stomachs  are  too  often  as  strong  as  their  hearts 
are  hard,  and  to  many  Error  looks  lovely  still,  in  spite  of 
all  the  loathliest  foulness  in  which  the  sage  Spenser  has 
steeped  her.  ... 

Dryden,  himself  a  mighty  master  of  versification,  pre- 
ferred— at  least  he  says  so,  but  we  hope  he  lied — Waller's 
to  Spenser's !  ^^  We  must  speak  leniently,  then,  of  the 
follies  of  meaner  men.  Hughes  saith,  "As  to  the  stanza 
in  which  the  Faerie  Queene  is  written,  though  the  author 
cannot  he  commended  for  his  choice  of  it,  yet  it  is  much 
more  harmonious  in  its  kind  than  the  heroic  verse  of 
that  age;  it  is  almost  the  same  with  that  the  Italians 
call  their  ottava  rima,  which  is  used  both  by  Ariosto  and 
Tasso,  but  improved  by  Spenser,  with  the  addition  of  a 
line  more  in  the  close,  of  the  length  of  our  alexandrines." 
Mr.  Hughes  cannot  commend  Spenser  for  his  choice — 

»  A  radical  Member  of  Parliament  interested  in  economic  reform. 

'0  See  Faerie  Queene,  Blc.  i,  canto  i,  stanza  20. 

"In  the  Discourse  on  Satire:  "[Spenser's]  obsolete  language, 
and  the  ill  choice  of  bis  stanza,  are  faults  but  of  the  second  mag- 
nitude ;  .  .  .  and  he  is  the  more  to  be  admired,  that,  labouring 
under  such  a  difficulty,  bis  verses  are  so  numerous,  so  various,  and 
80  harmonious,  that  only  Virgil,  whom  he  profestly  imitated,  has 
surpassed  him  among  the  Romans,  and  only  Mr.  Waller  among 
the  English." 


WILSON  375 

that  is,  invention — of  his  stanza,  nor  perhaps  would  he 
have  been  able  to  commend  Haydn  for  the  style  of  music 
he  chose  in  his  Creation.  It  is  not  almost  the  same  with 
that  the  Italians  call  their  ottava  rima,  and  if  Hughes 
had  been  a  horse  he  would  have  known — in  case  of  lame- 
ness— that  three  legs  are  not  almost  the  same  as  four. 
But  Tom  Warton,  a  poet,  follows  Hughes  in  this  blind- 
ness and  deafness,  absolutely  saying,  "Although  Spenser's 
favorite  Chaucer  made  use  of  the  ottava  rima"  (which  he 
did  not),  "or  stanza  of  eight  lines,  yet  it  seems  probable 
that  Spenser  was  principally  induced  to  adopt  it,  with  the 
addition  of  one  line,  from  the  practice  of  Ariosto  and 
Tasso,  the  most  fashionable  poets  of  his  age.  But  Spenser, 
in  choosing  this  stanza,  did  not  sufficiently  consider  the 
genius  of  the  English  language,  which  does  not  easily 
fall  into  a  frequent  repetition  of  the  same  termination, 
a  circumstance  natural  to  the  Italian,  which  deals  largely 
in  identical  cadences."  Tom  Warton  knew,  notwith- 
standing all  this  nonsense,  that  no  two  kinds  of  stanza 
extant  are  more  different  than  Spenser's  and  the  ottava 
rima  of  the  Italians.  He  has  himself  told  us  so.  "Their 
ottava  rima  has  only  three  similar  endings  alternately 
rhyming — the  two  last  lines  formed  a  distinct  rhyme. 
But  in  Spenser  the  second  rhyme  is  repeated  four  times, 
and  the  third  three."  This  correct  statement  also  in- 
cludes the  fact  of  there  being  nine  lines  in  the  one 
and  eight  in  the  other, — ^but  not  that  the  ninth  is  an 
alexandrine.  All  poets  have,  since  Warton's  time,  agreed 
in  thinking  the  Spenserian  stanza  the  finest  ever  con- 
ceived by  the  soul  of  music ; — and  what  various  delightful 
specimens  of  it  have  we  now  in  our  language  I  Thomson's 
Castle  of  Indolence,  Shenstone's  Schoolmistress,  Beattie's 
Minstrel,  Burns's  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  Campbell's 
Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  Scott's  Don  Roderick,  Words- 
worth's Female  Vagrant,  Shelley's  Revolt  of  Islam,  Keats's 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  Croly's  Angel  of  the  World,  Byron's 
Childe  Harold!  And  many  "a  lovely  lay"  might  be  added 
to  the  list;  for  it  would  seem  that  so  divine  is  the  nature 
of  the  stanza  that  even  mediocre  poets,  with  a  fair  or 
fine  ear,  become  inspired  beyond  themselves,  "even  by 
the  sounds  themselves  have  made,"  and  that  almost  any 
lyre  sends  pleasant  music  from  its  strings,  however  even 


376  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

unskilfully  constructed  on  the  model  of  Spenser's,  and 
struck  by  no  master's  hand,  but  even  the  clumsy  fingers 
of  a  journeyman,  or  the  feeble  ones  of  an  apprentice. 
The  only  proof  of  the  pudding  is  the  eating  of  it.  The 
Faerie  Queene  proves  that  in  choosing — that  is,  inventing 
— his  stanza  Spenser  did  sufficiently  consult  the  genius 
of  the  English  language,  which  is  in  all  things  superior 
to  any  other  language  now  spoken  by  men.  ...  A  lan- 
guage like  the  Italian,  so  open  that  you  cannot  speak  it 
without  rhyming,  is  the  very  worst  of  all,  for  rhymes 
should  not  come  till  they  are  sought, — if  they  do,  they 
give  no  pleasurable  touch,  "no  gentle  shock  of  mild  sur- 
prise," but,  like  intrusive  fools,  keep  jingling  their  cap 
and  bells  in  your  ears,  if  not  to  your  indifference,  to  your 
great  disgust — and  you  wish  they  were  all  dead.  Not 
so  with  the  fine,  bold,  stern,  muscular,  masculine,  firm- 
knit,  and  heroic  language  of  England.  Let  no  poet  dare 
to  complain  of  the  poverty  of  its  words  in  what  Warton 
calls  "identical  cadences."  The  music  of  their  endings 
is  magnificent,  and  it  is  infinite.  And  we  conclude  with 
flinging  in  the  teeth  of  the  sciolist,  who  is  prating  per- 
haps of  the  superiority  of  the  German,  a  copy,  bound  in 
calf-skin,  of  Walker's  Rhyming  Dictionary;  for  the  shade 
of  Spenser  might  frown,  while  it  smiled,  were  we  to  knock 
the  blockhead  down  with  our  vellum  volume  of  the  Faerie 
Queene.  .  .  . 

What  Dryden  really  meant  by  asserting  that  there  is 
no  unity  of  design  in  the  Faerie  Queene  ^^  we  do  not  know. 
He  was  habitually  the  rashest  and  most  heedless  of  critics, 
and  there  are  more  inconsistencies  and  contradictions  in 
the  shortest  of  his  prefaces — spirited  as  they  all  are,  and 
agreeably  off-handed — than  in  any  canto  of  that  poem.  For 
a  spurt.  Glorious  John  might  have  been  safely  backed 
at  odds  against  any  poet  of  his  own  century;  but  he  has 
given  no  proof  of  being  able  to  conceive  unity  of  design 
in  any  extensive  work,  and  must  very  soon  have  been 
bewildered  in  the  woods  of  Fairy  Land.  He  knew  but 
street  scenery,  and  was  ignorant  of  all  manner  of  trees. 
Nor  had  he  by  nature  any  sense  of  the  beautiful,  the 

"  In  the  Dedication  of  the  JEneis:  "Spenser  has  a  better  plea 
for  his  Fairy  Queen  [i.e.,  for  a  place  among  great  epics],  bad  his 
action  been  finished,  or  had  been  one." 


HUNT  377 

pathetic,  or  the  sublime.  He  ia  the  only  powerful  poet 
of  whom  it  can  be  said  that  he  never  drew  a  tear — ^never 
awakened  one  thought  that  lay  too  deep  for  tears.  Of 
the  shadowy  world  of  idealities  and  abstractions,  he  has 
nowhere  shown  one  glimpse  of  knowledge;  and  even  on 
his  own  ground,  how  far  inferior  was  he  to  Spenser  I 


WHAT  IS  POETRY? 
Leioh  Hunt 

[This  essay,  the  full  title  of  which  was  "An  Answer  to  the 
Question,  What  is  Poetry?",  formed  the  introduction  to  Hunt's 
volume  of  poetical  selections  called  Imagination  and  Fancy, 
published  1844.] 

Poetry,  strictly  and  artistically  so  called, — that  is  to 
say,  considered  not  merely  as  poetic  feeling,  which  is  more 
or  less  shared  by  all  the  world,  but  as  the  operation  of 
that  feeling,  such  as  we  see  it  in  the  poet's  book, — is  the 
utterance  of  a  passion  for  truth,  beauty,  and  power,  em- 
bodying and  illustrating  its  conceptions  by  imagination, 
and  fancy,  and  modulating  its  language  on  the  principle 
of  variety  in  uniformity.  Its  means  are  whatever  the 
universe  contains;  and  its  ends,  pleasure  and  exultation. 
Poetry  stands  between  nature  and  convention,  keeping 
alive  among  us  the  enjoyment  of  the  external  and  the 
spiritual  world;  it  has  constituted  the  most  enduring 
fame  of  nations ;  and,  next  to  Love  and  Beauty,  which  are 
its  parents,  is  the  greatest  proof  to  man  of  the  pleasure 
to  be  found  in  all  things,  and  of  the  probable  riches  of 
infinitude. 

Poetry  is  a  passion,^  because  it  seeks  the  deepest  im- 
pressions; and  because  it  must  undergo,  in  order  to  con- 
vey them. 

It  is  a  passion  for  truth,  because  without  truth  the 
impression  would  be  false  or  defective. 

It  is  a  passion  for  beauty,  because  its  office  is  to  exalt 
and  refine  by  means  of  pleasure,  and  because  beauty  is 
nothing  but  the  loveliest  form  of  pleasure. 

*  Patsio,  suffering  in  a  good  sense, — ardent  subjection  of  one'l 
self  to  emotion.     [Hunt's  note.] 


378  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

It  is  a  passion  for  power,  because  power  is  impression 
triumphant,  whether  over  the  poet,  as  desired  by  himself, 
or  over  the  reader,  as  affected  by  the  poet. 

It  embodies  and  illustrates  its  impressions  by  imagina- 
tion, or  images  of  the  objects  of  which  it  treats,  and 
other  images  brought  in  to  throw  light  on  those  objects, 
in  order  that  it  may  enjoy  and  impart  the  feeling  of  their 
truth  in  its  utmost  conviction  and  affluence. 

It  illustrates  them  by  fancy,  which  is  a  lighter  play  of 
imagination,  or  the  feeling  of  analogy  coming  short  of 
seriousness,  in  order  that  it  may  laugh  with  what  it  loves, 
and  show  how  it  can  decorate  it  with  fairy  ornament. 

It  modulates  what  it  utters,  because  in  running  the 
whole  round  of  beauty  it  must  needs  include  beauty  of 
sound;  and  because,  in  the  height  of  its  enjoyment,  it 
must  show  the  perfection  of  its  triumph,  and  make  diflfi- 
culty  itself  become  part  of  its  facility  and  joy. 

And  lastly.  Poetry  shapes  this  modulation  into  uniform- 
ity for  its  outline,  and  variety  for  its  parts,  because  it 
thus  realizes  the  last  idea  of  beauty  itself,  which  includes 
the  charm  of  diversity  within  the  flowing  round  of  habit 
and  ease. 

Poetry  is  imaginative  passion.  The  quickest  and 
subtlest  test  of  the  possession  of  its  essence  is  in  expres- 
sion; the  variety  of  things  to  be  expressed  shows  the 
amount  of  its  resources;  and  the  continuity  of  the  song 
completes  the  evidence  of  its  strength  and  greatness.  He 
who  has  thought,  feeling,  expression,  imagination,  action, 
character,  and  continuity,  all  in  the  largest  amount  and 
highest  degree,  is  the  greatest  poet. 

Poetry  includes  whatsoever  of  painting  can  be  made 
visible  to  the  mind's  eye,  and  whatsoever  of  music  can  be 
conveyed  by  sound  and  proportion  without  singing  or  in- 
strumentation. But  it  far  surpasses  those  divine  arts  in 
suggestiveness,  range,  and  intellectual  wealth; — the  first, 
in  egression  of  thought,  combination  of  images,  and  the 
triumph  over  space  and  time;  the  second,  in  all  that  can 
be  done  by  speech,  apart  from  the  tones  and  modulations 
of  pure  sound.  Painting  and  music,  however,  include  all 
those  portions  of  the  gift  of  poetry  that  can  be  expressed 
and  heightened  by  the  visible  and  melodious.  Painting, 
in    a    certain    apparent   manner,    is    things    themselves; 


HUNT  379 

music,  in  a  certain  audible  manner,  is  their  very  emotion 
and  grace.  Music  and  painting  are  proud  to  be  related 
to  poetry,  and  poetry  loves  and  is  proud  of  them. 

Poetry  begins  where  matter  of  fact  or  of  science  ceases 
to  be  merely  such,  and  to  exhibit  a  further  truth,  that  is 
to  say,  the  connection  it  has  with  the  world  of  emotion, 
and  its  power  to  produce  imaginative  pleasure.  Inquir- 
ing of  a  gardener,  for  instance,  what  flower  it  is  we  see 
yonder,  he  answers,  "A  lily."  This  is  matter  of  fact. 
The  botanist  pronounces  it  to  be  of  the  order  of  Hexan- 
dria  monogynia.  This  is  matter  of  science.  It  is  the 
"lady"  of  the  garden,  says  Spenser ;  ^  and  here  we  begin  to 
have  a  poetical  sense  of  its  fairness  and  grace.    It  is 

The  plant  and  flower  of  light, 

says  Ben  Jonson ; '  and  poetry  then  shows  us  the  beauty 
of  the  flower  in  all  its  mystery  and  splendor. 

If  it  be  asked  how  we  know  perceptions  like  these  to 
be  true,  the  answer  is,  by  the  fact  of  their  existence — 
by  the  consent  and  delight  of  poetic  readers.  And  as  feel- 
ing is  the  earliest  teacher,  and  perception  the  only  final 
proof  of  things  the  most  jemonstrable  by  science,  so  the 
remotest  imaginations  of  the  poets  may  often  be  found 
to  have  the  closest  connection  with  matter  of  fact;  per- 
haps might  always  be  so,  if  the  subtlety  of  our  perceptions 
were  a  match  for  the  causes  of  them.  Consider  this 
image  of  Ben  Jonson's — of  a  lily  being  the  flower  of  light. 
Light,  undecomposed,  is  white;  and  as  the  lily  is  white, 
and  light  is  white,  and  whiteness  itself  is  nothing  hut 
light,  the  two  things,  so  far,  are  not  merely  similar,  but 
identical.  A  poet  might  add,  by  an  analogy  drawn  from 
the  connection  of  light  and  color,  that  there  is  a  "golden 
dawn"  issuing  out  of  the  white  lily,  in  the  rich  yellow 
of  the  stamens.  I  have  no  desire  to  push  this  similarity 
farther  than  it  may  be  worth.  Enough  has  bwn  stated  to 
show  that,  in  poetical  as  well  as  in  other  analogies,  "the 
same  feet  of  Nature,"  as  Bacon  says,  may  be  seen  "tread- 
ing in  different  paths";  *  and  that  the  most  scornful,  that 

"The  lily,   lady   of  the   flowring   Odd"    (Faerie   Quccnc,  Bk.   11, 

canto  tI.  stanza  l6). 

» In  the  "Ode  on  the  Death  of  Sir  Henry  Morlson." 

*  Advancement    of    Learning,   Bk.    il.     For    the    exact    words    of 

Bacon,   see   page  2i9,   note  2. 


380  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

is  to  say,  dullest  disciple  of  fact  should  be  cautious  how 
he  betrays  the  shallowness  of  his  philosophy  by  discem- 
ing  no  poetry  in  its  depths. 

But  the  poet  is  far  from  dealing  only  with  these  subtle 
and  analogical  truths.  Truth  of  every  kind  belongs  to 
him,  provided  it  can  bud  into  any  kind  of  beauty,  or  is 
capable  of  being  illustrated  and  impressed  by  the  poetic 
faculty.  Nay,  the  simplest  truth  is  often  so  beautiful 
and  impressive  of  itself,  that  one  of  the  greatest  proofs 
of  his  genius  consists  in  his  leaving  it  to  stand  alone, 
illustrated  by  nothing  but  the  light  of  its  own  tears  or 
smiles,  its  own  wonder,  might,  or  playfulness.  Hence  the 
complete  effect  of  many  a  simple  passage  in  our  old  Eng- 
lish ballads  and  romances,  and  of  the  passionate  sincerity 
in  general  of  the  greatest  early  poets,  such  as  Homer  and 
Chaucer,  who  flourished  before  the  existence  of  a  'liter- 
ary world,"  and  jvere  not  perplexed  by  a  heap  of  notions 
and  opinions,  or  by  doubts  how  emotion  ought  to  be  ex- 
pressed. The  greatest  of  their  successors  never  write 
equally  to  the  purpose,  except  when  they  can  dismiss 
everything  from  their  minds  but  the  like  simple  truth. 
In  the  beautiful  poem  of  "Sir  Eger,  Sir  Graham,  and 
Sir  Gray-Steel"  (see  it  in  Ellis's  Specimens,  or  Laing's 
Early  Metrical  Tales),  a  knight  thinks  himself  disgraced 
in  the  eyes  of  his  mistress : — 

Sir  Eger  says,  "If  it  be  so, 
Then  wot  I  well  I  must  forego 
Love-liking,   and  manhood,   all   clean." 
The  toater  rushed  out  of  his  eeni 

Sir  Gray-Steel  is  killed: — 

Gray-Steel  into  his  death  thus  thrawes  [throes?] 

He   waiters    [welters — throws  himself   about]    and  the  grass 

up  drawes;  .  .  . 
A  little  while  then  lay  he  still, 
(Friends  that  him  saw  liked  full  ill) 
And  blood  into  his  armour  bright. 

The  abode  of  Chaucer's  Reeve,  or  Steward,  in  the  Can- 
terbury Tales,  is  painted  in  two  lines  which  nobody  ever 
wished  longer: 


HUNT  381 

His  wonyng  [dwelling]  was  ful  fair  upon  an  beeth; 
With  grene  trees  i-shadwed  was  his  place. 

Every  one  knows  the  words  of  Lear,  "most  matter-of' 
fact,  most  melancholy" : 

Pray  do  not  mock  me: 
I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man, 
Fourscore  and  upward,  not  an  hour  more  nor  less; 
And,  to  deal  plainly, 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind.' 

It  is  thus,  by  exquisite  pertinence,  melody,  and  the  im- 
plied power  of  writing  with  exuberance,  if  need  be,  that 
beauty  and  truth  become  identical  in  poetry,  and  that 
pleasure,  or  at  the  very  worst,  a  balm  in  our  tears,  is 
drawn  out  of  pain. 

It  is  a  great  and  rare  thing,  and  shows  a  lovely  imag- 
ination, when  the  poet  can  write  a  commentary,  as  it 
were,  of  his  own,  on  such  sufficing  passages  of  nature,  and 
be  thanked  for  the  addition.  There  is  an  instance  of 
this  kind  in  Warner,  an  old  Elizabethan  poet,  than  which 
I  know  nothing  sweeter  in  the  world.  He  is  speaking  of 
Fair  Rosamond,  and  of  a  blow  given  her  by  Queen 
Eleanor : 

With  that  she  dasht  her  on  the  lippes,  so  dyed  double  red: 
Hard  was  the  heart  that  gave  the  blow,  soft  were  those  lips 
that  bled.* 

There  are  different  kinds  and  degrees  of  imagination, 
some  of  them  necessary  to  the  formation  of  every  true 
poet,  and  all  of  them  possessed  by  the  greatest.  Perhaps 
they  may  be  enumerated  as  follows: — First,  that  which 
presents  to  the  mind  any  object  or  circumstance  in  every- 
day life,  as  when  we  imagine  a  man  holding  a  sword,  or 
looking  out  of  a  window;  Second,  that  which  presents 
real,  but  not  every-day  circumstances,  as  King  Alfred 
tending  the  loaves,  or  Sir  Philip  Sidney  giving  up  the 
water  to  the  dying  soldier;  Third,  that  which  combines 
character  and  events  imitated  from  real  life  with  imi- 
tative realities  of  its  own  invention,  as  the  probable  parts 

•  IV.  vll.  59-63. 

'Albion's  England,  VIII,  xli,  stanza  53. 


382^  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

of  the  histories  of  Priam  and  Macbeth,  or  what  may  be 
called  natural  fiction  as  distinguished  from  supernat- 
ural; Fourth,  that  which  conjures  up  things  and  events 
not  to  be  found  in  nature,  as  Homer's  gods  and  Shake- 
speare's witches,  enchanted  horses  and  spears,  Ariosto's 
hippogriff,  etc.;  Fifth,  that  which,  in  order  to  illustrate 
or  aggravate  one  image,  introduces  another:  sometimes 
in  simile,  as  when  Homer  compares  Apollo  descending 
in  his  wrath  at  noon-day  to  the  coming  of  night-time ; ' 
sometimes  in  metaphor  or  simile  comprised  in  a  word, 
as  Milton's  "motes  that  people  the  sunbeams" ;  ^  sometimes 
in  concentrating  into  a  word  the  main  history  of  any 
person  or  thing,  past  or  even  future,  as  in  the  "starry 
Galileo"  of  Byron,^  and  that  ghastly  foregone  conclusion 
of  the  epithet  "murdered"  applied  to  the  yet  living  vic- 
tim in  Keats's  story  from  Boccaccio, — 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murdered  man 
Rode  past  fair  Florence ;  *• 

sometimes  in  the  attribution  of  a  certain  representative 
quality  which  makes  one  circumstance  stand  for  others, 
as  in  Milton's  gray-fly  winding  its  "sultry  horn,"  ^^  which 
epithet  contains  the  heat  of  a  summer's  day;  Sixth,  that 
which  reverses  this  process,  and  makes  a  variety  of  cir- 
cumstances take  color  from  one,  like  nature  seen  with 
jaundiced  or  glad  eyes,  or  under  the  influence  of  storm 
or  sunshine;  as  when  in  Lycidas,  or  the  Greek  pastoral 
poets,  the  flowers  and  the  flocks  are  made  to  sympathize 
with  a  man's  death ;  or,  in  the  Italian  poet,  the  river  flow- 
ing by  the  sleeping  Angelica  seems  talking  of  love — 

Parea  che  1'  erba  a  lei  fiorisse  intorno, 
E   d'   amor   ragionasse  quella  rival — " 

or  in  the  voluptuous  homage  paid  to  the  sleeping  Imogen 
by  the  very  light  in  the  chamber  and  the  reaction  of  her 
own  beauty  upon  itself ;  ^'  or  in  the  "witch  element"  of  the 

"'Iliad,  1,  47. 

•/I  Penieroto,  line  8. 

•CMlde  Harold,  canto  Iv,  line  485. 

••"Isabella,"  stanza  27. 

"  "Lycidas,"   line  28. 

"Boiardo's  Orlando  Innatnorato.I,  ili,  69. 

^Cvmbeline,  II,  ii,   19-21;  see  Hazlitt,   p.   225. 


HUNT  383 

tragedy  of  Macbeth  and  the  May-day  night  of  Faust; 
Seventh,  and  last,  that  by  which  a  single  expression,  ap- 
parently of  the  vaguest  kind,  not  only  meets  but  sur- 
passes in  its  effect  the  extremest  force  of  the  most  par- 
ticular description;  as  in  that  exquisite  passage  of  Cole- 
ridge's Christabel,  where  the  unsuspecting  object  of  the 
witch's  malignity  is  bidden  to  go  to  bed: 

Quoth  Christabel,  So  let  it  be! 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she, 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness: 

a  perfect  verse  surely,  both  for  feeling  and  music.  The 
very  smoothness  and  gentleness  of  the  limbs  is  in  the 
series  of  the  letter  I's. 

I  am  aware  of  nothing  of  the  kind  surpassing  that  most 
lovely  inclusion  of  physical  beauty  in  moral,  neither  can 
I  call  to  mind  any  instances  of  the  imagination  that  turns 
accompaniments  into  accessories,  superior  to  those  I  have 
alluded  to.  Of  the  class  of  comparison,  one  of  the  most 
touching  (many  a  tear  must  it  have  drawn  from  parents 
and  lovers)  is  in  a  stanza  which  has  been  copied  into  the 
'Triar  of  Orders  Gray"  **  out  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher : 

Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more. 

Thy  sorrow  is  in  vaine; 
For  violets  pluckt  the  sweetest  showers 

Will  ne'er  make  grow  againe. 

And  Shakespeare  and  Milton  abound  in  the  very  grand- 
est; such  as  Antony's  likening  his  changing  fortunes  to 
the  cloud-rack ;  ^*  Lear's  appeal  to  the  old  age  of  the  heav- 
ens;*' Satan's  appearance  in  the  horizon,  like  a  fleet 
'^hanging  in  the  clouds" ;  and  the  comparisons  of  him  with 
the  comet  and  the  eclipse."  Nor  unworthy  of  this  glo- 
rious company,  for  its  extraordinary  combination  of  deli- 
cacy and  vastness,  is  that  enchanting  one  of  Shelley's  in 
the  Adonais: 

'♦  A  ballad  In  Percy's  Rcliauet,  In  which  he  included  yarlous 
fragmentary  passages  of  early  poetry ;  this  stanza,  In  altered 
form,  was  taken  from  a  song  in  The  Queen  oj  Corinth,  III,  11. 

"  Antonv  and  Cleopatra,  IV,  xiv,  2-13. 

"Kino  Lear,  II,  iv,  102ff.  Compare  Lamb  and  Haslitt,  pp. 
183     225 

"Paradise  Lost,  11,  636-37 ;  11,  708-11 ;  1,  696-99. 


384  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  eternity. 

I  multiply  these  particulars  in  order  to  impress  upon  the 
reader's  mind  the  great  importance  of  imagination  in  all 
its  phases,  as  a  constituent  part  of  the  highest  poetic 
faculty. 

The  happiest  instance  I  remember  of  imaginative  meta- 
phor is  Shakespeare's  moonlight  "sleeping"  on  a  bank ;  ^* 
but  half  his  poetry  may  be  said  to  be  made  up  of  it, 
metaphor  indeed  being  the  common  coin  of  discourse. 
Of  imaginary  creatures  none,  out  of  the  pale  of  mythol- 
ogy and  the  East,  are  equal,  perhaps,  in  point  of  inven- 
tion, to  Shakespeare's  Ariel  and  Caliban;  though  poetry 
may  grudge  to  prose  the  discovery  of  a  Winged  Woman,  es- 
pecially such  as  she  has  been  described  by  her  inventor  in 
the  story  of  Peter  Wilkins;  ^^  and  in  point  of  treatment, 
the  Mammon  and  Jealousy  of  Spenser,"  some  of  the  mon- 
sters in  Dante,  particularly  his  Nimrod,^^  his  interchange- 
ments  of  creatures  into  one  another,  and  (if  I  am  not 
presumptuous  in  anticipating  what  I  think  will  be  the 
verdict  of  posterity)  the  Witch  in  Coleridge's  Christdbel, 
may  rank  even  with  the  creations  of  Shakespeare.  It  may 
be  doubted,  indeed,  whether  Shakespeare  had  bile  and 
nightmare  enough  in  him  to  have  thought  of  such  de- 
testable horrors  as  those  of  the  interchanging  adversaries 
(now  serpent,  now  man),^^  or  even  of  the  huge,  half-block- 
ish enormity  of  Nimrod, — in  Scripture,  the  "mighty 
hunter"  and  builder  of  the  tower  of  Babel, — in  Dante,  a 
tower  of  a  man  in  his  own  person,  standing  with  some 
of  his  brother  giants  up  to  the  middle  in  a  pit  in  hell, 
blowing  a  horn  to  which  a  thunder-clap  is  a  whisper,  and 
hallooing  after  Dante  and  his  guide  in  the  jargon  of  a 
lost  tongue  I  ^^  .  .  .  Assuredly  it  would  not  have  been  easy 
to  find  a  fiction  so  uncouthly  terrible  as  this  in  the  hypo- 
chondria of  Hamlet.    Even  his  father  had  evidently  seen 

"  Merchant  of  Venice,  V,  1,  54. 

'•By  Robert  Paltock,  1751. 

*•  Faerie  Queene,  Bk.  il,  canto  vll,  stanzas  3-5 ;  Bk.  lii,  canto 
z,  stanzas  54-60. 

"  Inferno,  xxxl,  34-81. 

"  Ibid.,  XXV,  49-138. 

^  The  omitted  passage  consists  chiefly  of  the  quotation  of  Dante's 
account  of  Nimrod. 


HUNT  385 

no  such  ghost  in  the  other  world.  All  his  phantoms  were 
in  the  world  he  had  left.  Timon,  Lear,  Richard,  Brutus, 
Prospero,  Macbeth  himself,  none  of  Shakespeare's  men 
had,  in  fact,  any  thought  but  of  the  earth  they  lived  on, 
whatever  supernatural  fancy  crossed  them.  The  thing 
fancied  was  still  a  thing  of  this  world,  "in  its  habit  as  it 
lived,"  or  no  remoter  acquaintance  than  a  witch  or  a 
fairy.  Its  lowest  depths  (unless  Dante  suggested  them) 
were  the  cellars  under  the  stage.  Caliban  himself  is  a 
cross-breed  between  a  witch  and  a  clown.  No  offense 
to  Shakespeare;  who  was  not  bound  to  be  the  greatest 
of  healthy  poets  and  to  have  every  morbid  inspiration 
besides.  What  he  might  have  done,  had  he  set  his  wits 
to  compete  with  Dante,  I  know  not ;  all  I  know  is,  that  in 
the  infernal  line  he  did  nothing  like  him;  and  it  is  not 
to  be  wished  he  had.  It  is  far  better  that,  as  a  higher, 
more  universal,  and  more  beneficent  variety  of  the  genus 
Poet,  he  should  have  been  the  happier  man  he  was,  and 
left  us  the  plump  cheeks  on  his  monument,  instead  of  the 
carking  visage  of  the  great,  but  over-serious  and  com- 
paratively one-sided  Florentine.  Even  the  imagination  of 
Spenser,  whom  we  take  to  have  been  a  "nervous  gentle- 
man" compared  with  Shakespeare,  was  visited  with  no 
such  dreams  as  Dante.  Or,  if  it  was,  he  did  not  choose 
to  make  himself  thinner  (as  Dante  says  he  did)  with 
dwelling  upon  them.  He  had  twenty  visions  of  nymphs 
and  bowers,  to  one  of  the  mud  of  Tartarus.  Chaucer,  for 
all  he  was  a  "man  of  this  world"  as  well  as  the  poets' 
world,  and  as  great,  perhaps  a  greater  enemy  of  oppres- 
sion than  Dante,  besides  being  one  of  the  profoundest  mas- 
ters of  pathos  that  ever  lived,  had  not  the  heart  to  con- 
clude the  story  of  the  famished  father  and  his  children,** 
as  finished  by  the  inexorable  anti-Pisan.  But  enough  of 
Dante  in  this  place.  Hobbes,  in  order  to  daunt  the  reader 
from  objecting  to  his  friend  Davenant's  want  of  inven- 
tion, says  of  these  fabulous  creatures  in  general,  in  his 
letter  prefixed  to  the  poem  of  Gondihert,"^^  that  "impene- 
trable armors,  enchanted  castles,  invulnerable  bodies,  iron 
men,  flying  horses,   and  a  thousand  other  such   things, 

**  The  storv  of  Ugollno  of  Pisa,  related  by  Dnnte  in  the  In- 
ferno, canto  zxxiii,  by  Chaucer  in  "The  Monk  s  Tale,"  lines  3597- 
8652. 

**By  Davenant,  1651. 


386  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

are  easily  feigned  by  them  that  dare."  These  are  girds 
at  Spenser  and  Ariosto.  But,  with  leave  of  Hobbes  (who 
translated  Homer  as  if  on  purpose  to  show  what  execrable 
verses  could  be  written  by  a  philosopher),  enchanted  cas- 
tles and  flying  horses  are  not  easily  feigned,  as  Ariosto 
and  Spenser  feigned  them;  and  that  just  makes  all  the 
difference.  For  proof,  see  the  accounts  of  Spenser's  en- 
chanted castle  in  Book  the  Third,  Canto  Twelfth,  of  the 
Fairy  Queen;  and  let  the  reader  of  Italian  open  the  Or- 
lando Furioso  at  its  first  introduction  of  the  Hippogriff 
(iv,  4),  where  Bradamante,  coming  to  an  inn,  hears  a 
great  noise,  and  sees  all  the  people  looking  up  at  some- 
thing in  the  air;  upon  which,  looking  up  herself,  she  sees 
a  knight  in  shining  armor  riding  towards  the  sunset  upon 
a  creature  with  variegated  wings,  and  then  dipping  and 
disappearing  among  the  hills.  Chaucer's  steed  of  brass, 
that  was  "so  horsly  and  so  quik  of  ye,"  ^s  is  copied  from 
the  life.  You  might  pat  him  and  feel  his  brazen  mus- 
cles. Hobbes,  in  objecting  to  what  he  thought  childish, 
made  a  childish  mistake.  His  criticism  is  just  such  as 
a  boy  might  pique  himself  upon,  who  was  educated  on 
mechanical  principles,  and  thought  he  had  outgrown  his 
Goody  Two-shoes.  With  a  wonderful  dimness  of  dis- 
cernment in  poetic  matters,  considering  his  acuteness  in 
others,  he  fancies  he  has  settled  the  question  by  pronounc- 
ing such  creations  "impossible"!  To  the  brazier  they 
are  impossible,  no  doubt;  but  not  to  the  poet.  Their  pos- 
sibility, if  the  poet  wills  it,  is  to  be  conceded;  the  prob- 
lem is,  the  creature  being  given,  how  to  square  its  actions 
with  probability,  according  to  the  nature  assumed  of  it. 
Hobbes  did  not  see  that  the  skill  and  beauty  of  these  fic- 
tions lay  in  bringing  them  within  those  very  regions  of 
truth  and  likelihood  in  which  he  thought  they  could  not 
exist.    Hence  the  serpent  python  of  Chaucer, 

Slepynge  agayn  the  sonne  upon  a  day," 

when  Apollo  slew  him.  Hence  the  chariot-drawing  dol- 
phins of  Spenser,  softly  swimming  along  the  shore  lest  they 
should  hurt  themselves  against  the  stones  and  gravel.'* 

*•  "The  Squire's  Tale."  line  194. 

"  "The  Manciple's  Tale,"  line  110. 

**  Faerie  Queene,  Bk.  ill,  canto  iv,  stanzas  33-34. 


HUNT  387 

Hence  Shakespeare's  Ariel,  living  under  blossoms,  and 
riding  at  evening  on  the  bat;  and  his  domestic  namesake 
in  the  Rape  of  the  Lock  (the  imagination  of  the  drawing- 
room)  saving  a  lady's  petticoat  from  the  coffee  with  his 
plumes,  and  directing  atoms  of  snuff  into  a  coxcomb's 
nose.2"  In  the  Orlando  Furioso  (xv,  65)  is  a  wild  story  of 
a  cannibal  necromancer,  who  laughs  at  being  cut  to  pieces, 
coming  together  again  like  quicksilver,  and  picking  up 
his  head  when  it  is  cut  off,  sometimes  by  the  hair,  some- 
times by  the  nose!  This,  which  would  be  purely  childish 
and  ridiculous  in  the  hands  of  an  inferior  poet,  becomes 
interesting,  nay  grand,  in  Ariosto's,  from  the  beauties 
of  his  style,  and  its  conditional  truth  to  nature.  The 
monster  has  a  fated  hair  on  his  head — a  single  hair — 
which  must  be  taken  from  it  before  he  can  be  killed. 
Decapitation  itself  is  of  no  consequence,  without  that 
proviso.  The  Paladin  Astolfo,  who  has  fought  this  phe- 
nomenon on  horseback,  and  succeeded  in  getting  the  head 
and  galloping  off  with  it,  is  therefore  still  at  a  loss  what 
to  be  at.  How  is  he  to  discover  such  a  needle  in  such  a 
bottle  of  hay  ?  The  trunk  is  spurring  after  him  to  recover 
it,  and  he  seeks  for  some  evidence  of  the  hair  in  vain. 
At  length  he  bethinks  him  of  scalping  the  head.  He 
does  so;  and  the  moment  the  operation  arrives  at  the 
place  of  the  hair,  the  face  of  the  head  becomes  pale,  the 
eyes  turn  in  their  sockets,  and  the  lifeless  pursuer  tumbles 
from  his  horse.  ...  It  is  thus,  and  thus  only,  by  making 
Nature  his  companion  wherever  he  goes,  even  in  the  most 
supernatural  region,  that  the  poet,  in  the  words  of  a  very 
instructive  phrase,  takes  the  world  along  with  him.  It 
is  true  he  must  not  (as  the  Platonists  would  say)  hu- 
manize weakly  or  mistakenly  in  that  region ;  otherwise  he 
runs  the  chance  of  forgetting  to  be  true  to  tlie  super- 
natural itself,  and  so  betraying  a  want  of  imagination 
from  that  quarter.  His  nymphs  will  have  no  taste  of 
their  woods  and  waters ;  his  gods  and  goddesses  be  only  so 
many  fair  or  frowning  ladies  and  gentlemen,  such  as  we 
see  in  ordinary  paintings;  he  will  be  in  no  danger  of 
having  his  angels  likened  to  a  sort  of  wild-fowl,  as  Rem- 
brandt has  made  them  in  his  Jacob's  Dream.     His  Bac- 

*•  See  canto  iii,  lines  113-16,  and  canto  v,  lines  83-86. 


388  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

chuses  will  never  remind  us,  like  Titian's,  of  the  force 
and  fury  as  well  as  of  the  graces  of  wine.  His  Jupiter 
will  reduce  no  females  to  ashes;  his  fairies  be  nothing 
fantastical;  his  gnomes  not  "of  the  earth,  earthy."  And 
this  again  will  be  wanting  to  Nature;  for  it  will  be  want- 
ing to  the  supernatural,  as  Nature  would  have  made  it, 
working  in  a  supernatural  direction.  Nevertheless,  the 
poet,  even  for  imagination's  sake,  must  not  become  a  bigot 
to  imaginative  truth,  dragging  it  down  into  the  region  of 
the  mechanical  and  the  limited,  and  losing  sight  of  its 
paramount  privilege,  which  is  to  make  beauty,  in  a  hu- 
man sense,  the  lady  and  queen  of  the  universe.  He 
would  gain  nothing  by  making  his  ocean-nymphs  mere 
fishy  creatures,  upon  the  plea  that  such  only  could  live 
in  the  water;  his  wood-nymphs  with  faces  of  knotted 
oak ;  his  angels  without  breath  and  song,  because  no  lungs 
could  exist  between  the  earth's  atmosphere  and  the  em- 
pyrean. The  Grecian  tendency  in  this  respect  is  safer 
than  the  Gothic;  nay,  more  imaginative;  for  it  enables 
us  to  imagine  beyond  imagination,  and  to  bring  all  things 
healthily  round  to  their  only  present  final  ground  of  sym- 
pathy— the  human.  When  we  go  to  heaven,  we  may  ideal- 
ize in  a  superhuman  mode,  and  have  altogether  different 
notions  of  the  beautiful ;  but  till  then  we  must  be  content 
with  the  loveliest  capabilities  of  earth.  The  sea-nymphs 
of  Greece  were  still  beautiful  women,  though  they  lived 
in  the  water.  The  gills  and  fins  of  the  ocean's  natural 
inhabitants  were  confined  to  their  lowest  semi-human  at- 
tendants; or  if  Triton  himself  was  not  quite  human,  it 
was  because  he  represented  the  fiercer  part  of  the  vitality 
of  the  seas,  as  they  did  the  fairer.^"  .  .  . 

The  reverse  of  imagination  is  exhibited  in  pure  absence 
of  ideas,  in  commonplaces,  and,  above  all,  in  conventional 
metaphor,  or  such  images  and  their  phraseology  as  have 
become  the  common  property  of  discourse  and  writing. 
Addison's  Cato  is  full  of  them :  ^^ 

Passion  unpitied  and  successless  love 
Plant  daggers  in  my  heart. 

**The  omitted  passaee  presents  two  examples  of  the  imagina- 
tion from  the  poetry  or  Homer. 
•>  Compare  Macaulay,  p.  348. 


HUNT  389 

I've  sounded  my  Numidians,  man  by  man, 
And  find  'em  ripe  for  a  revolt. 

The  virtuous  Marcia  towera  above  her  tea. 

Of  the  same  kind  is  his  "courting  the  yoke" — "distracting 
my  very  soul" — "calling  up  all"  one's  "father"  in  one's 
soul — ''working  every  nerve" — "copying  a  bright  exam- 
ple" ;  in  short,  the  whole  play,  relieved  now  and  then  with 
a  smart  sentence  or  turn  of  words.  The  following  is  a 
pregnant  example  of  plagiarism  and  weak  writing.  It  is 
from  another  tragedy  of  Addison's  time,  the  Mariamne  of 
Fenton : 

Mariamne,  vAth  superior  charms, 
Triumphs  o'er  reason;  in  her  look  she  bears 
A  paradise  of  ever-blooming  sweets; 
Fair  as  the  first  idea  beauty  prints 
In  the  young  lover's  soul;  a  winning  grace 
Guides  every  gesture,  and  obsequious   love 
Attends  on  all  her  steps. 

"Triumphing  o'er  reason"  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  every- 
body's. "Paradise  in  her  look"  is  from  the  Italian  poets 
through  Dryden.  "Fair  as  the  first  idea,"  etc.,  is  from 
Milton,  spoilt;  "winning  grace"  and  "steps"  from  Milton 
and  Tibullus,^^  both  spoilt.  Whenever  beauties  are  stolen 
by  such  a  writer,  they  are  sure  to  bo  spoilt;  just  as  when 
a  great  writer  borrows,  he  improves. 

To  come  now  to  Fancy, — she  is  a  younger  sister  of 
Imagination,  without  the  other's  weight  of  thought  and 
feeling.  Imagination  indeed,  purely  so  called,  is  all  feel- 
ing; the  feeling  of  the  subtlest  and  most  affecting  analo- 
gies; the  perception  of  sympathies  in  the  nature  of  things, 
i  or  in  their  popular  attributes.  Fancy  is  a  sporting  with 
their  resemblance,  real  or  supposed,  and  with  airy  and 
fantastical  creations: 

Rouse  yourself;  and  the  weak  wanton  Cupid 
Shall  from  your  neck  unloose  his  amorous  fold, 


•*  See  Paradite  Lost,  vlli,  60-61 :  "On  her  as  quwn  a  pomp  of 
Winning  graces  waited  still ;"  and  TlbuUus,  IV,  li,  7-8,  lines  "which 
bave  been  translated : 

Whatsoe'er  the  maid  be  doing,  wheresoe'er  her  steps  she  bends. 
Perfect  grace  is  shed  around  her,  perfect  grace  In  stealth  attends. 


390  CKITICAL  ESSAYS 

And,  like  a  dew-drop  from  the  lion's  mane, 
Be  shook  to  air.** 

That  is  imagination;  the  strong  mind  sympathizing  with 
the  strong  beast,  and  the  weak  love  identified  with  the 
weak  dew-drop. 

And  I,  forsooth,  in  love!     I,  that  have  been  love's  whip; 

A  very  beadle  to  a  hum^orous  sigh; 

A  domineering  pedant  o'er  the  boy;   .  .  . 

This  wimpled,  whining,  purblind,  wayward  boy, 

This  senior-junior,  giant-dwarf,  Dan  Cupid; 

Regent  of  love-rim^s,  lord  of  folded  arms. 

The  anointed  sovereign  of  sighs  and  groans,  etc.** 

That  is  fancy;  a  combination  of  images  not  in  their  na- 
ture connected,  or  brought  together  by  the  feeling,  but  by 
the  will  and  pleasure;  and  having  just  enough  hold  of 
analogy  to  betray  it  into  the  hands  of  its  smiling  sub- 
jector. 

Silent  icicles 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  moon.** 

That,  again,  is  imagination — analogical  sympathy;  and 
exquisite  of  its  kind  it  is. 

You  are  now  sailed  into  the  north  of  my  lady's  opinion; 
where  you  will  hang  like  an  icicle  on  a  Dutchman's  heard, 
unless  you  do  redeem  it  by  some  laudable  attempt.** 

And  that  is  fancy;  one  image  capriciously  suggested  by 
another,  and  but  half  connected  with  the  subject  of  dis- 
course; nay,  half  opposed  to  it;  for,  in  the  gayety  of  the 
speaker's  animal  spirits,  the  ''Dutchman's  beard"  is  made 
to  represent  the  lady! 

Imagination  belongs  to  Tragedy,  or  the  serious  Muse; 
Fancy  to  the  comic.  Macbeth,  Lear,  Paradise  Lost,  the 
poem  of  Dante,  are  full  of  imagination :  the  Midsummer 
Nighfs  Dream  and  The  Rape  of  the  Lock,  of  fancy; 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  Tempest,  the  Fairy  Queen,  and 
the  Orlando  Furioso,  of  both.     The  terms  were  formerly 

'*Troilu8  and  CreBsida,  III,  111,  222-25. 
**  Lore's  Labour's  Lost,  III,  i,   175-84. 
"From  Coleridge's  "Frost  at  Midnight." 
*•  Twelfth  mght.  III,  ii,  27-30. 


HUNT  391 

identical,  or  used  as  such;  and  neither  is  the  best  that 
might  be  found.  The  term  Imagination  is  too  confined; 
often  too  material.  It  presents  too  invariably  the  idea  of 
a  solid  body — of  "images"  in  the  sense  of  the  plaster- 
cast  cry  about  the  streets.  Fancy,  on  the  other  hand, 
while  it  means  nothing  but  a  spiritual  image  or  appari- 
tion (<l>i.PTa(Xfxa ,  appearance,  phantom),  has  rarely  that 
freedom  from  visibility  which  is  one  of  the  highest  priv- 
ileges of  imagination.  Viola,  in  Twelfth  Night,  speak- 
ing of  some  beautiful  music,  says : 

It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  throned." 

In  this  charming  thought,  fancy  and  imagination  are 
combined ;  yet  the  fancy,  the  assumption  of  Love's  sitting 
on  a  throne,  is  the  image  of  a  solid  body ;  while  the  imag- 
ination, the  sense  of  sympathy  between  the  passion  of 
love  and  impassioned  music,  presents  us  no  image  at  all. 
Some  new  term  is  wanting  to  express  the  more  spiritual 
sympathies  of  what  is  called  Imagination. 

One  of  the  teachers  of  Imagination  is  Melancholy;  and 
like  Melancholy,  as  Albert  Diirer  has  painted  her,  she 
looks  out  among  the  stars,  and  is  busied  with  spiritual  af- 
finities and  the  mysteries  of  the  universe.  Fancy  turns 
her  sister's  wizard  instruments  into  toys.  She  takes  a 
telescope  in  her  hand,  and  puts  a  mimic  star  on  her  fore- 
head, and  sallies  forth  as  an  emblem  of  astronomy.  Her 
tendency  is  to  the  childlike  and  sportive.  She  chases  but- 
terflies, while  her  sister  takes  flight  with  angels.  She 
is  the  genius  of  fairies,  of  gallantries,  of  fashions;  of 
whatever  is  quaint  and  light,  showy  and  capricious;  of 
the  poetical  part  of  wit.^*  She  adds  wings  and  feelings  to 
the  images  of  wit;  and  delights  as  much  to  people  nature 
with  smiling  ideal  sympathies,  as  wit  does  to  bring  an- 
tipathies together,  and  make  them  strike  light  on  ab- 
surdity. Fancy,  however,  is  not  incapable  of  sympathy 
with  Imagination.  She  is  often  found  in  her  company; 
always,  in  the  case  of  the  greatest  poets;  often  in  that 
of   less,   though   with  them   she   is  the  greater  favorite. 

"  II.   iv,  21-22. 

*•  Compare   Wordsworth,   p.   42. 


392  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

Spenser  has  great  imagination  and  fancy  too,  but  more 
of  the  latter;  Milton,  both  also,  the  very  greatest,  but 
with  imagination  predominant;  Chaucer  the  strongest 
imagination  of  real  life,  beyond  any  writers  but  Homer, 
Dante,  and  Shakespeare,  and  in  comic  painting  inferior 
to  none;  Pope  has  hardly  any  imagination,  but  he  has  a 
great  deal  of  fancy;  Coleridge  little  fancy,  but  imagina- 
tion exquisite.  Shakespeare  alone,  of  all  the  poets  that 
ever  lived,  enjoyed  the  regard  of  both  in  equal  perfec- 
tion. A  whole  fairy  poem  of  his  writing  will  be  found  in 
the  present  volume.^^  See  also  his  famous  description  of 
Queen  Mab  and  her  equipage,  in  Borneo  and  Juliet: 

Her  wagon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs, 

The  cover  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers, 

The  traces  of  the  smallest  spider's  web, 

The  collars  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams,  etc.* 

That  is  Fancy,  in  its  playful  creativeness.  As  a  small 
but  pretty  rival  specimen,  less  known,  take  the  descrip- 
tion of  a  fairy  palace  from  Drayton's  Nymphidia: 

.  .  .  The  walls  of  spiders'  legs  are  made, 
Well  mortised  and  finely  laid; 
He  was  the  master  of  his  trade. 

It  curiously  that  builded: 
The  windows  of  the  eyes  of  cats: 

(because  they  see  best  at  night). 

And  for  the  roof,  instead  of  slats. 
Is  covered  with  the  skins  of  bats 
With  moonshine  that  are  gilded. 

Here  also  is  a  fairy  bed,  very  delicate,  from  the  same 
poet's  Miises'  Elysium: 

Of  leaves   of   roses,  white   and  red, 
Shall  be  the  covering  of  her  bed; 
The  curtains,  vallens,  tester  all 
Shall  be  the  flower  imperial; 

*  Hunt  refers  to  extracts  from  A  Midgummer  Night's  Dream, 
which  he  included  in  Imagination  and  Fancy  under  the  title  "The 
Quarrel  of  Oberon  and  Titania." 

««I,  iv,  59-62. 


HUNT  393 

And  for  the  fringe,  it  all  along 
With  azure  harebells  shall  be  hung. 
Of  lilies  shall  the  pillows  be, 
With  doicn  stuff'd  of  the  butterfly. 

Of  fancy,  so  full  of  gusto  as  to  border  on  imagination. 
Sir  John  Suckling,  in  his  "Ballad  on  a  Wedding,"  has 
given  some  of  the  most  playful  and  charming  specimens 
in  the  language.  They  glance  like  twinkles  of  the  eye, 
or  cherries  bedewed : 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  feared  the  light; 
But  oh!   she  dances  such  a  way! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter  Day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

It  is  very  daring,  and  has  a  sort  of  playful  grandeur,  to 
compare  a  lady's  dancing  with  the  sun.  But  as  the  sun 
has  it  all  to  himself  in  the  heavens,  so  she,  in  the  blaze 
of  her  beauty,  on  earth.  This  is  imagination  fairly  dis- 
placing fancy.    The  following  has  enchanted  everybody: 

Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin 
Compared  to  that  was  next  her  ohin, 
Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly. 

Every  reader  has  stolen  a  kiss  at  that  lip,  gay  or  grave. 

With  regard  to  the  principle  of  Variety  in  Uniformity 
by  which  verse  ought  to  be  modulated,  and  oneness  of 
impression  diversely  produced,  it  has  been  contended  by 
some  that  Poetry  need  not  be  written  in  verse  at  all ;  that 
prose  is  as  good  a  medium,  provided  poetry  be  conveyed 
through  it;  and  that  to  think  otherwise  is  to  confound 
letter  with  spirit,  or  form  with  essence.  But  the  opinion 
is  a  prosaical  mistake.  Fitness  and  unfitness  for  song, 
or  metrical  excitement,  just  make  all  the  difference  be- 
tween a  poetical  and  prosaical  subject ;  *^  and  the  reason 
why  verse  is  necessary  to  the  form  of  poetry  is  that  the 
perfection  of  poetical  spirit  demands  it; — that  the  circle 
of  its  enthusiasm,  beauty  and  power,  is  incomplete  with- 

*•  Compare  Coleridge,   p.   130. 


S94  CEITICAL  ESSAYS 

out  it.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  a  poet  can  never  show 
himself  a  poet  in  prose;  but  that,  being  one,  his  desire 
and  necessity  will  be  to  write  in  verse;  and  that,  if  he 
were  unable  to  do  so,  he  would  not,  and  could  not,  deserve 
his  title.  Verse  to  the  true  poet  is  no  clog.  It  is  idly 
called  a  trammel  and  a  difficulty.  It  is  a  help.  It 
springs  from  the  same  enthusiasm  as  the  rest  of  his  im- 
pulses, and  is  necessary  to  their  satisfaction  and  effect. 
Verse  is  no  more  a  clog  than  the  condition  of  rushing 
upward  is  a  clog  to  fire,  or  than  the  roundness  and  order 
of  the  globe  we  live  on  is  a  clog  to  the  freedom  and  vari- 
ety that  abound  within  its  sphere.  Verse  is  no  dominator 
over  the  poet,  except  inasmuch  as  the  bond  is  reciprocal, 
and  the  poet  dominates  over  the  verse.  They  are  lovers, 
playfully  challenging  each  other's  rule,  and  delighted 
equally  to  rule  and  to  obey.  Verse  is  the  final  proof  to 
the  poet  that  his  mastery  over  his  art  is  complete.  It  is 
the  shutting  up  of  his  powers  in  "measureful  content"; 
the  answer  of  form  to  his  spirit;  of  strength  and  ease  to 
his  guidance.  It  is  the  willing  action,  the  proud  and 
fiery  happiness,  of  the  winged  steed  on  whose  back  he  has 
vaiJted, 

To  witch  the  world  with  wondrous  horsemanship.** 

Verse,  in  short,  is  that  finishing,  and  rounding,  and 
"tuneful  planeting"  of  the  poet's  creations,  which  is  pro- 
duced of  necessity  by  the  smooth  tendencies  of  their 
energy  or  inward  working,  and  the  harmonious  dance  into 
which  they  are  attracted  round  the  orb  of  the  beauti- 
ful. Poetry,  in  its  complete  sympathy  with  beauty,  must 
of  necessity  leave  no  sense  of  the  beautiful,  and  no  power 
over  its  forms,  unmanif ested ;  and  verse  flows  as  inev- 
itably from  this  condition  of  its  integrity,  as  other  laws 
of  proportion  do  from  any  other  kind  of  embodiment  of 
beauty  (say  that  of  the  human  figure),  however  free  and 
various  the  movements  may  be  that  play  within  their 
limits.  What  great  poet  ever  wrote  his  poems  in  prose? 
or  where  is  a  good  prose  poem,  of  any  length,  to  be  found  ? 
The  poetry  of  the  Bible  is  understood  to  be  in  verse,  in 
the  original.     Mr.  Hazlitt  has  said  a  good  word  for  those 

**1  Henru  TV,  IV,  1,  110  (with  "noble"  for  "wondrous"). 


HUNT  395 

prose  enlargements  of  some  fine  old  song,  which  are 
known  by  the  name  of  Ossian ;  *'  and  in  passages  they  de- 
serve what  he  said;  but  he  judiciously  abstained  from 
saying  anything  about  the  form.  Is  Gessner's  Death  of 
Abel**  a  poem?  or  Hervey's  Meditations?  *^  The  Ptl- 
grim's  Progress  has  been  called  one;  and  undoubtedly 
Bunyan  had  a  genius  which  tended  to  make  him  a  poet, 
and  one  of  no  mean  order ;  and  yet  it  was  of  as  ungenerous 
and  low  a  sort  as  was  compatible  with  so  lofty  an  afl&nity ; 
and  this  is  the  reason  why  it  stopped  where  it  did.  He 
had  a  craving  after  the  beautiful,  but  not  enough  of  it 
in  himself  to  echo  to  its  music.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
possession  of  the  beautiful  will  not  be  sufficient  without 
force  to  utter  it.  The  author  of  Telemachus  *^  had  a  soul 
full  of  beauty  and  tenderness.  He  was  not  a  man  who,  if 
he  had  had  a  wife  and  children,  would  have  run  away 
from  them,  as  Bunyan's  hero  did,  to  get  a  place  by  him- 
self in  heaven.*^  He  was  "a  little  lower  than  the  angels," 
like  our  own  Bishop  Jewells  and  Berkeleys;  and  yet  he 
was  no  poet.  He  was  too  delicately,  not  to  say  feebly, 
absorbed  in  his  devotions  to  join  in  the  energies  of  the 
seraphic  choir. 

Every  poet,  then,  is  a  versifier;  every  fine  poet  an  ex- 
cellent one;  and  he  is  the  best  whose  verse  exhibits  the 
greatest  amount  of  strength,  sweetness,  straightforward- 
ness, unsuperfluousness,  variety  and  oneness; — oneness, 
that  is  to  say,  consistency,  in  the  general  impression, 
metrical  and  moral,  and  variety,  or  every  pertinent  di- 
versity of  tone  and  rhythm,  in  the  process.**  .  .  . 

If  a  young  reader  should  ask,  after  all,  What  is  the 
quickest  way  of  knowing  bad  poets  from  good,  the  best 
poets  from  the  next  best,  and  so  on?  the  answer  is,  the 


*•  At  the  close  of  his  lecture  "On  Poetry  In  General." 

♦*  An  idyl  by  a  Swiss  writer,  published  1758. 

«•  A  religious  worlt  by  James  llervey  (Meditation*  and  Contem- 
plationt),  published  1746-47. 

*•  By  F6nelon.  a  French  prelate   (1661-1715). 

•'  This  remark  is  due  to  a  misapprehension  of  the  allegory  of 
The  Pilffrim't  Progrr«»,  in  which  Christian  stands  for  the  individ- 
ual soul  in  search  of  salvation  and  his  leaving  of  his  family 
represents  the  forsaking  of  the  realm  of  sin. 

**  The  omitted  section  discusses  in  some  detail  the  principles 
of  verse-form. 


396  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

only  and  twofold  way:  first,  the  perusal  of  the  best  poets 
with  the  greatest  attention;  and,  second,  the  cultivation 
of  that  love  of  truth  and  beauty  which  made  them  what 
they  are.  Every  true  reader  of  poetry  partakes  a  more 
than  ordinary  portion  of  the  poetic  nature;  and  no  one 
can  be  completely  such  who  does  not  love,  or  take  an  in- 
terest in,  everything  that  interests  the  poet,  from  the 
firmament  to  the  daisy, — from  the  highest  heart  of  man 
to  the  most  pitiable  of  the  low.  It  is  a  good  practice 
to  read  with  pen  in  hand,  marking  what  is  liked  or 
doubted.  It  rivets  the  attention,  realizes  the  greatest 
amount  of  enjoyment,  and  facilitates  reference.  It  en- 
ables the  reader  also,  from  time  to  time,  to  see  what  prog- 
ress he  makes  with  his  own  mind,  and  how  it  grows  up 
toward  the  stature  of  its  exalter. 

If  the  same  person  should  ask.  What  class  of  poetry  is 
the  highest?  I  should  say,  undoubtedly,  the  epic;  for  it 
includes  the  drama,  with  narration  besides;  or  the  speak- 
ing and  action  of  the  characters  with  the  speaking  of 
the  poet  himself,  whose  utmost  address  is  taxed  to  relate 
all  well  for  so  long  a  time,  particularly  in  the  passages 
least  sustained  by  enthusiasm.  Whether  this  class  has 
included  the  greatest  poet,  is  another  question  still  under 
trial;  for  Shakespeare  perplexes  all  such  verdicts,  even 
when  the  claimant  is  Homer;  though,  if  a  judgment  may 
be  drawn  from  his  early  narratives  (VeniLs  and  Adonis 
and  The  Rape  of  Lucrece),  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether 
even  Shakespeare  could  have  told  a  story  like  Homer, 
owing  to  that  excessive  activity  and  superfoetation  of 
thought,  a  little  less  of  which  might  be  occasionally  de- 
sired even  in  his  plays, — if  it  were  possible,  once  posses- 
sing anything  of  his,  to  wish  it  away.  Next  to  Homer 
and  Shakespeare  come  such  narrators  as  the  less  univer- 
sal but  still  intenser  Dante;  Milton,  with  his  dignified 
imagination;  the  universal,  profoundly  simple  Chaucer; 
and  luxuriant,  remote  Spenser — immortal  child  in  po- 
etry's most  poetic  solitudes:  then  the  great  second-rate 
dramatists,  unless  those  who  are  better  acquainted  with  ^ 
Greek  tragedy  than  I  am  demand  a  place  for  them  before  H 
Chaucer:  then  the  airy,  yet  robust  universality  of  Ariosto; 
the  hearty,  out-of-door  nature  of  Theocritus,  also  a  uni- 
versalist;   the  finest  lyrical  poets   (who  only  take  short 


HUNT  397 

"flights,  compared  with  the  narrators);  the  purely  con- 
templative poets  who  have  more  thought  than  feeling ;  the 
descriptive,  satirical,  didactic,  epigrammatic.  It  is  to  be 
borne  in  mind,  however,  that  the  first  poet  of  an  inferior 
class  may  be  superior  to  followers  in  the  train  of  a 
higher  one,  though  the  superiority  is  by  no  means  to  be 
taken  for  granted;  otherwise  Pope  would  be  superior  to 
Fletcher,  and  Butler  to  Pope.  Imagination,  teeming  with 
action  and  character,  makes  the  greatest  poets;  feeling 
and  thought  the  next;  fancy  (by  itself)  the  next;  wit  the 
last.  Thought  by  itself  makes  no  poet  at  all;  for  the 
mere  conclusions  of  the  understanding  can  at  best  be 
only  so  many  intellectual  matters  of  fact.  Feeling,  even 
destitute  of  conscious  thought,  stands  a  far  better  poetical 
chance;  feeling  being  a  sort  of  thought  without  the  proc- 
ess of  thinking — a  grasper  of  the  truth  without  seeing  it. 
And  what  is  very  remarkable,  feeling  seldom  makes  the 
blunders  that  thought  does.  An  idle  distinction  has  been 
made  between  taste  and  judgment.  Taste  is  the  very 
maker  of  judgment.  Put  an  artificial  fruit  in  your 
mouth,  or  only  handle  it,  and  you  will  soon  perceive  the 
difference  between  judging  from  taste  or  tact  and  judg- 
ing from  the  abstract  figment  called  judgment.*'  The  lat- 
ter does  but  throw  you  into  guesses  and  doubts.  Hence 
the  conceits  that  astonish  us  in  the  gravest  and  even 
subtlest  thinkers,  whose  taste  is  not  proportionate  to  their 
mental  perceptions:  men  like  Donne,^"  for  instance,  who, 
apart  from  accidental  personal  impressions,  seem  to  look 
at  nothing  as  it  really  is,  but  only  as  to  what  may  be 
thought  of  it.  Hence,  on  the  other  hand,  the  delightful- 
ness  of  those  poets  who  never  violate  truth  of  feeling, 
whether  in  things  real  or  imaginary;  who  are  always  con- 
sistent with  their  object  and  its  requirements;  and  who 
run  the  great  round  of  nature,  not  to  perplex  and  be  per- 
plexed, but  to  make  themselves  and  us  happy.  And  luck- 
ily, delightfulness  is  not  incompatible  with  greatness,  will- 
ing soever  as  men  may  be  in  their  present  imperfect  state 
to  set  the  power  to  subjugate  above  the  power  to  please. 
Truth,  of  any  great  kind  whatsoever,  makes  great  writ- 
ing.    This  is  the  reason  why  such  poets  as  Ariosto,  though 

"Compare  De  Qulncey.  p.  323. 
•     "One  of  the  poets  called  "metaptaysical"    (1573-1631). 


398  CRITICAL  ESSAYS 

not  writing  with  a  constant  detail  of  thought  and  feeling 
like  Dante,  are  justly  considered  great  as  well  as  delight- 
ful. Their  greatness  proves  itself  by  the  same  truth  of 
nature,  and  sustained  power,  though  in  a  different  way. 
Their  action  is  not  so  crowded  and  weighty;  their  sphere 
has  more  territories  less  fertile;  but  it  has  enchantments 
of  its  own,  which  excess  of  thought  would  spoil, — luxu- 
ries, laughing  graces,  animal  spirits;  and  not  to  recog- 
nize the  beauty  and  greatness  of  these,  treated  as  they 
treat  them,  is  simply  to  be  defective  in  sympathy.  Every 
planet  is  not  Mars  or  Saturn.  There  is  also  Venus  and 
Mercury.  There  is  one  genius  of  the  south,  and  another 
of  the  north,  and  others  uniting  both.  The  reader  who 
is  too  thoughtless  or  too  sensitive  to  like  intensity  of  any 
sort,  and  he  who  is  too  thoughtful  or  too  dull  to  like 
anything  but  the  greatest  possible  stimulus  of  reflection 
or  passion,  are  equally  wanting  in  complexional  fitness  for 
a  thorough  enjoyment  of  books.  Ariosto  occasionally  says 
as  fine  things  as  Dante,  and  Spenser  as  Shakespeare;  but 
the  business  of  both  is  to  enjoy;  and  in  order  to  partake 
their  enjojrment  to  its  full  extent,  you  must  feel  what 
poetry  is  in  the  general  as  well  as  the  particular,  must 
be  aware  that  there  are  different  songs  of  the  spheres, 
some  fuller  of  notes,  and  others  of  a  sustained  delight; 
and  as  the  former  keep  you  perpetually  alive  to  thought 
or  passion,  so  from  the  latter  you  receive  a  constant  har- 
monious sense  of  truth  and  beauty,  more  agreeable  perhaps 
on  the  whole,  though  less  exciting.  Ariosto,  for  instance, 
does  not  tell  a  story  with  the  brevity  and  concentrated 
passion  of  Dante;  every  sentence  is  not  so  full  of  matter, 
nor  the  style  so  removed  from  the  indifference  of  prose; 
yet  you  are  charmed  with  a  truth  of  another  sort,  equally 
characteristic  of  the  writer,  equally  drawn  from  nature, 
and  substituting  a  healthy  sense  of  enjoyment  for  in- 
tenser  emotion.  Exclusiveness  of  liking  for  this  or  that 
mode  of  truth  only  shows,  either  that  a  reader's  percep- 
tions are  limited,  or  that  he  would  sacrifice  truth  itself 
to  his  favorite  form  of  it.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  who  was 
as  trenchant  with  his  pen  as  his  sword,  hailed  the  Faerie 
Queene  of  his  friend  Spenser  in  verses  in  which  he  said 
that  Petrarch  was  thenceforward  to  be  no  more  heard  of, 
and   that  in   all   English  poetiy  there  was  nothing  he 


HUNT  399 

counted  "of  any  price"  but  the  efhisions  of  the  new  au- 
thor.'* Yet  Petrarch  is  still  living;  Chaucer  was  not  abol- 
ished by  Sir  Walter;  and  Shakespeare  is  thought  somewhat 
valuable.  A  botanist  might  as  well  have  said  that  myrtles 
and  oaks  were  to  disappear  because  acacias  had  come  up. 
It  is  with  the  poet's  creations  as  with  Nature's,  great 
or  small.  Wherever  truth  and  beauty,  whatever  their 
amount,  can  be  worthily  shaped  into  verse,  and  answer 
to  some  demand  for  it  in  our  hearts,  there  poetry  is  to 
be  found;  whether  in  productions  grand  and  beautiful  as 
some  great  event,  or  some  mighty,  leafy  solitude,  or  no 
bigger  and  more  pretending  than  a  sweet  face  or  a  bunch 
of  violets;  whether  in  Homer's  epic  or  Gray's  Elegy,  in 
the  enchanted  gardens  of  Ariosto  and  Spenser,  or  the 
very  pot-herbs  of  the  Schoolmistress  of  Shenstone,  the 
balms  of  the  simplicity  of  a  cottage.  Not  to  know  and 
feel  this  is  to  be  deficient  in  the  universality  of  Nature 
herself,  who  is  a  poetess  on  the  smallest  as  well  as  the 
largest  scale,  and  who  calls  upon  us  to  admire  all  her 
productions, — not  indeed  with  the  same  degree  of  admira- 
tion, but  with  no  refusal  of  it,  except  to  defect. 

I  cannot  draw  this  essay  towards  its  conclusion  better 
than  with  three  memorable  words  of  Milton,  who  has  said 
that  poetry,  in  comparison  with  science,  is  "simple,  sensu- 
ous, and  passionate."  "  By  simple,  he  means  unperplexed 
and  self-evident;  by  sensuous,  genial  and  full  of  imagery; 
by  passionate,  excited  and  enthusiastic.  I  am  aware  that 
different  constructions  have  been  put  on  some  of  these 
words;  but  the  context  seems  to  me  to  necessitate  those 
before  us.  I  quote,  however,  not  from  the  original,  but 
from  an  extract  in  the  Remarks  on  Paradise  Lost  by 
Richardson."* 

What  the  poet  has  to  cultivate  above  all  things  is  love 
and  truth;  what  he  has  to  avoid,  like  poison,  is  the  fleet- 
ing and  the  false.  He  will  get  no  good  by  proposing  to 
be  "in  earnest  at  the  moment."  His  earnestness  must 
be  innate  and  habitual;  bom  with  him,  and  felt  to  be  his 

**  In  a  commendatory  aonnet  publisbed  with  the  Faerie  Queene, 
"At  whose  approach  the  soul  of  Petrarch  wept. 
And  from  thenceforth  those   graces   were   not   seen." 
■In   the  treatise   On  Bducation;  but   the  comparison   la  with 
lo^c  and  rhetoric. 

"Published  1734    (by  Jonathan  Richardson,  father  and  son). 


400 


CRITICAL  ESSAYS 


most  precious  inheritance.  "I  expect  neither  profit  or 
general  fame  by  my  writings,"  says  Coleridge,  in  the 
Preface  to  his  Poems;  "and  I  consider  myself  as  having 
been  amply  repaid  without  either.  Poetry  has  been  to 
me  its  'own  exceeding  great  reward' ;  it  has  soothed  my  af- 
flictions; it  has  multiplied  and  refined  my  enjoyments; 
it  has  endeared  solitude;  and  it  has  given  me  the  habit 
of  wishing  to  discover  the  good  and  beautiful  in  aU  that 
meets  and  surrounds  me." 

"Poetry,"  says  Shelley,  "lifts  the  veil  from  the  hidden 
beauty  of  the  world,  and  makes  familiar  objects  be  as  if 
they  were  not  familiar;  it  reproduces  all  that  it  repre- 
sents, and  the  impersonations  clothed  in  its  Elysian  light 
stand  thence  forward  in  the  minds  of  those  who  have 
once  contemplated  them,  as  memorials  of  that  gentle  and 
exalted  content  which  extends  itself  over  all  thoughts 
and  actions  with  which  it  co-exists.  The  great  secret  of 
morals  is  love;  or  a  going  out  of  our  own  nature,  and 
an  identification  of  ourselves  with  the  beautiful  which  ex- 
ists in  thought,  action,  or  person,  not  our  own.  A  man, 
to  be  greatly  good,  must  imagine  intensely  and  compre- 
hensively; he  must  put  himself  in  the  place  of  another, 
and  of  many  others ;  the  pains  and  pleasures  of  his  species 
must  become  his  own.  The  great  instrument  of  moral 
good  is  the  imagination;  and  poetry  administers  to  the 
effect  by  acting  upon  the  cause."  ^* 

I  would  not  willingly  say  anything  after  perorations 
like  these;  but  as  treatises  on  poetry  may  chance  to  have 
auditors  who  think  themselves  called  upon  to  vindicate 
the  superiority  of  what  is  called  useful  knowledge,  it  may 
be  as  well  to  add  that,  if  the  poet  may  be  allowed  to  pique 
himself  on  any  one  thing  more  than  another,  compared 
with  those  who  undervalue  him,  it  is  on  that  power  of 
undervaluing  nobody,  and  no  attainments  different  from 
his  own,  which  is  given  him  by  the  very  faculty  of  imag- 
ination they  despise.  The  greater  includes  the  less. 
They  do  not  see  that  their  inability  to  comprehend  him 
argrues  the  smaller  capacity.  No  man  recognizes  the 
worth  of  utility  more  than  the  poet;  he  only  desires  that 
the  meaning  of  the  term  may  not  come  short  of  its  great- 


MSee  p.  285. 


HUNT  401 

nees,  and  exclude  the  noblest  necessities  of  his  fellow- 
creatures.  He  is  quite  as  much  pleased,  for  instance,  with 
the  facilities  for  rapid  conveyance  afforded  him  by  the 
railroad,  as  the  dullest  confiner  of  its  advantages  to  that 
single  idea,  or  as  the  greatest  two-ideaed  man  who  varies 
that  single  idea  by  hugging  himself  on  his  "buttons"  or 
his  good  dinner.  But  he  sees  also  the  beauty  of  the  coun- 
try through  which  he  passes,  of  the  towns,  of  the  heavens, 
of  the  steam-engine  itself,  thundering  and  fuming  like  a 
magic  horse,  of  the  affections  that  are  carrying,  perhaps, 
half  the  passengers  on  their  journey,  nay,  of  those  of  the 
great  two-ideaed  man;  and,  beyond  all  this,  he  discerns 
the  incalculable  amount  of  good,  and  knowledge,  and  re- 
finement and  mutual  consideration,  which  this  wonderful 
invention  is  fitted  to  circulate  over  the  globe,  perhaps  to 
the  displacement  of  war  itself,  and  certainly  to  the  dif- 
fusion of  millions  of  enjoyments. 

"And  a  button-maker,  after  all,  invented  it!"  cries  our 
friend.  Pardon  me — it  was  a  nobleman.  A  button- 
maker  may  be  a  very  excellent,  and  a  very  poetical  man, 
too,  and  yet  not  have  been  the  first  man  visited  by  a  sense 
of  the  gigantic  powers  of  the  combination  of  water  and 
fire.  It  was  a  nobleman  who  first  thought  of  this  most 
poetical  bit  of  science.  It  was  a  nobleman  who  first 
thought  of  it,  a  captain  who  first  tried  it,  and  a  button- 
maker  who  perfected  it."  And  he  who  put  the  nobleman 
on  such  thoughts  was  the  great  philosopher  Bacon,  who 
said  that  poetry  had  "something  divine  in  it,"  '•  and  was 
necessary  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  human  mind. 

"The  nobleman  was  the  second  Marquis  of  Worcester  (1601- 
1677),  who  In  his  Century  of  Inventiona  suggested  a  machine  "for 
driving  op  water  by  Are."  The  captain  was  Thomas  Savery,  who 
In  1698  patented  a  machine  embodying  the  use  of  steam.  The 
"button-maker"  was  Matthew  Boulton,  associate  of  Watt  In  the 
practical  development  of  the  steam-engine. 

••  See  p.  224. 


m 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS  AND  TITLES 


Academy  of  CotnpUmentt,  The, 
204 

Accius    293 

Addison.  J.,  23,  152,  236,  263, 
267,  289,  346,  348,  351,  357, 
388 

Adonaia    (Shelley).    383 

Advancement  of  Learning  (Ba- 
con), 224,   279.  283,   310.   379 

Advice  to  an  Author  (Shaftes- 
bury), 46 

Advice  to  Young  Men  (Cobbett), 
271 

Address  to  Kilchum  Castle 
(Wordsworth).  332 

JEncid,  231.  208,   299,  347 

^schylus,  143,  144.  216,  280, 
287,  312,  343.  370 

Agamemnon  (>£schylus),  143, 
287 

Albion's  England  (Warner),  381 

Alexander's  Feast  (Dryden),  321 

Alexis  (Vergil).  108 

Alfleri,  267,  349 

Alice    Fell    (Wordsworth),    129 

All's  Well  That  Ends  Well,  145 

Amelia   (Fielding),   91 

Anacreon,  108 

Ancient  Mariner,  The  (Cole- 
ridge), 105.  255 

Anecdote  for  Fathers  (Words- 
worth), 129 

Angel  of  the  World,  The  (Cro- 
ly).  375 

Animadversions    (Milton).    125 

Antony  and  Cleopatra,  324,  283 

Apollonius  Rbodius.  299 

Apology  for  Poetry  (Sidney), 
274,  279.  282 

Apophthegms    (Bacon),   340 

Arlosto,  141.  223,  267.  297.  299, 
356.  369-70.  374-75,  386-87, 
396-98 

Aristophanes,  362 

Aristotle,  13,  116,  133,  310,  313, 
369 

As  You  Like  It,  147.  151 

Austen,    J.,    79-89,    365-66 

Babes  in  the  Wood,  23,  128,  129 
Bacon,    48.   121,   224,   278,   282, 


283,  301,  307,  310,  340,  371, 
379 

Baddeley,  R..  190 

Baillie.   J.,    165.   317 

Ballad  on  a  Wedding  (Suck- 
ling). 392 

Banks,  N.,  175 

Bard,   The    (Gray),  317 

Barton.   B.,   317 

Bathyllus    (Anacreon),  108 

Battle  of  the  Baltic  (Camp- 
bell), 317 

Beattie.  J.,  33,  355.  375 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  146, 
383 

Beaux'  Stratagem,  The  (Far- 
qubar),  358 

Beggars,  The  (Wordsworth), 
129 

Beggar's  Opera  (Gay),  216.  232 

Bcuslcy.  K..  189-92 

Betterton,  T..  174 

Bettlnelli.    267 

Beverley.   Mrs..  179 

Bible,  115.  123.  145,  263,  280, 
294.  301.  322,  331.  342 

Biographia  Literaria  (Cole- 
ridge), 67,   100,  104,  112 

Bion,  290 

Birds,  The   (Aristophanes),  362 

Black  Dwarf,  The  (Scott),  241, 
246.    249-50 

Blackmore,  It..  99.  252 

Blackwood's  Magazine.  165,  368 

Blind  Highland  Boy,  The 
(Wordsworth).   258 

Boccaccio.   237,  301 

Boiardo,   3S2 

Bolleau.    169.    252 

Bourgeois  Ocntilhomme  (Mo- 
llCre).  222.  352.  366 

Borough,  The   (Crabbe),  81 

Bowles.    W.   L..   251-73 

Brambletye  House  (Smith),  314 

Bride  of  Lammermoor,  The 
(Scott*.    316 

British    Critic.   46 

British  Synonyms  (Taylor),  35, 
102 

Brothers,  The  (Wordsworth), 
114 


403 


404        INDEX  TO  AUTHORS  AND  TITLES 


Brongham,  Lord,  329,  369 

Brown,    J.,    179 

Brown,   T.,    121 

Buckingham,   Dake  of,   84 

Bunyan,   J.,   237,   395 

Burke,  E.,  53,  121,  228,  239 

Bum,  R.,  359 

Burnet,  T.,   110 

Burns,    R.,    33,    165,    267,    272, 

320,  375 
Butcher,  S.  H.,  116,  313 
Butler,  S.,  397 
Byron,     Lord,     32,     274,     307, 

312,    317-18,    319,    321,    369, 

375,   382 

Cain    (Byron),   312 

Calderon,    288,   297,   301 

Camoens,  299 

Campaign,   The    (Addison),   236 

Campbell.  T.,  62-64,  251,  254-55, 

261,  265,  274,  317-18,  375 
Canterbury  Tales,  218,  380 
Castle  of  Indolence  (Thomson), 

375 
Cato    (Addison),  152,   263,   267, 

289,   348,   388 
Catullus,   293 
Causes   CiUbres,   241 
Cecilia  (d'Arblay),  266 
Century  of  Inventions  (WorccB- 

ter),  401 
Chalmers,  T.,  232 
Chapman,  G.,  171 
Chaucer,  218,  236,  299-301,  844, 

375,    380,    385-86,    392,    396, 

399 
Chesterfield,  Lord,  43 
Childe     Harold     (Byron),     259, 

317-19,  369,  375.  382 
Children  in  the  Wood,  23,  128- 

29 
Choephorce  (iEschylus),  312 
Chough     and     the     Crow,     The 

(BallUe),    317 
ChHstabel  (Coleridge),  105,383- 

384 
Churchill,  C,  161 
Cibber,  C,  180.  349 
<;icero,    282,    317 
Clarissa  Harlowe   (Richardson), 

19,   173 
Claudian,    299 
Clym  of  the  Clough,  27 
Cobbett,  W..  271 
Coleridge,   H.,   155 
Coleridge,   S.  T.,  28.  39.  41,  67, 

274,    348,    351,    383-84,    392, 

400 
I  CoUins.  J.  C,  46 


Collins.  W.,  229,  355 

Comische      Erzdhiungen      (Wie- 

land).  171 
Comus    (Milton),   355 
Congreve,  W.,  193,  195-96,  358- 

62 
Conversations    (Medwin),   247 
Cooke.  G.  F.,  181 
Coriolanus,  151 
Corneille,  267 
Corsair,  The  (Byron),  319 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night  (Bams), 

33,  272.  375 
Cotton,  C,  44 
Country  Wife.  The  (Wycherley), 

358.  362 
Cowley.  A.,  72,  101,  197 
Cowper,   W..   28.   33,   62,  63.   67, 

269-70,  317.  321,  330.  338 
Crabbe,    G.,    62,    63,    66,    80-81, 

271.  318 
Cradock.  J..  23 

Creation,  The  (Blackmore),  252 
Crfibillon,  267 
Croly,  G.,  375 

Cuckoo,   The    (Wordsworth),   3T 
Cultivation     of     Taste      (Gold- 
smith). 262 
Curse     of    Kehama     ( South  ey), 

316.  360 
Cymbeline,  151,  173-74,  225,  382 

Dampler,  335 

Dante,    122,    141.    267-68.    280, 

282,    296-97,    299.    301.    347, 

354,   384,   385,    392,    396-98 
D'Arblay,    Madame,    367-68 
Dark    Ladie,    The     (Coleridge), 

105 
Darwin,   E..   63 
Davenant.  W..  186,  385 
Da  vies,   J.,   Ill 
Davles.   S.,   232 
Death  of  Abel  (Gessner),  395 
Death  of  Harvey  (Cowley),  197- 

98 
De  Augmcntia  Scientiarum  (Ba» 

con),  310 
Dedication  of  tlie  ^neis    (Dry- 
den),  376 
Defoe,  D.,  237 
De  Rerum  Natura    (Lucretlns), 

33 
Deserted     Village     (Goldsmith), 

33 
Dci'il  Is  an  Ass,  The   (Jonson), 

358 
De     Vulgari    Eloquio     (Dante), 

122 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS  AND  TITLES        406 


Dialogues  of  the  Dead  (Ffine- 
lon).  360 

Diary  and  Lettert  (Mme.  d'Ar- 
blay),  362 

Discourse  on  the  Winia  (Dam- 
pier),   335 

Discourses  Concerning  Govern- 
ment  (Sidney),  121 

Discourses  on  the  Christian 
Revelation  (Chalmers),  232 

Divina  Commedia,  296-98  [See 
Dante] 

Don  Juan   (Byron),  312 

Donne.  J.,  61,   132,  397 

Don  Quixote,  91 

Don    Roderick   (Scott),   375 

Double  Dealer,  The  (Congreve), 
195,  358 

Douglas  (Home),  181,  355 

Dragon  of  Wantlev,  The,  373 

Drayton,   M.,   253,  350,  392 

Dream,  The  (Barton),  317 

Dryden,  J.,  84.  132.  186.  267, 
272.  321.  330-31.  344,  347-48, 
357-58,  374-77.  389 

Dunciad,  The    (Pope),  229,  260 

Dyer,  J.,  33,  264 

Early    Metrical    Tales    (Lalng). 

380 
Eclogues  (Virgil).  36,  38 
Edgeworth,  M..  84.  314-15 
Edinburgh   Review,    46,   C4,    67, 

340.  356.  362 
Education,  On  (Milton).  399 
Elder   Brother,  The    (lletcher), 

357 
Electro    (Euripides),   816 
Elegy    (Gray),   261,   267,   399 
Ellis,   G.,   3^0 
Eloisa  to  Abelard   (Pope),  252- 

53 
Emma    (Austen),  79-89,  866 
EmpiHlocles,   312-13 
Endymlon  (Keats),  160-72 
England's       Heroioal       Epistlea 

(Drayton),  253,  350 
English   Garden    (Mason),   83 
Ennlus,  203 
Enthusiasmus       Triumphatus 

(More),  115 
Epistles    (Horace).   40.   253 
Epistles    to    Arhuthnot    (Pope), 

268 
Epistle  to  Augustus  (Pope).  271 
Essay     on     Allegorical     Poetry 

(Hughes).  371 
Essay  on  Man   (Pope),  269 
Essay   on  Pope    (Warton),   236, 

272 


Essay     on     Sir     John     Falstaff 

(Morgann),   219 
Essays,   Critical   and   Historicai 

(Newman),  310 
Eumenidea    (^Eschylus),    143 
Euripides,    258,    316,   370 
Eve  of  8t.  Agnes    (Keats),  375 
Every  Man  Out  of  His  Humour 

(Jonson),  366 
Examiner,  166,  241 
Excursion,    The    (Wordsworth), 

33,  67-79,  329,  336,  348 

Faery  Queene.  99.  199-200,  234, 
299,  368-77,  379,  884,  386, 
390,  398-D9 

Fair  Penitent   (Rowe),   179 

Falconer,  W.,  256,  264 

Farquhar,  G.,  193,  195,  358 

Fatal   Dowry    (Masslnger),    358 

Fatal  Marriage  (Southcrne), 
179 

Faust  (Goethe),  383 

Female  Vagrant,  The  (Words- 
worth), 375 

Ffinelon.  359-60.  395 

Fenton.  E..   266.  389 

Fielding.  H.,  82,  91 

Fleece,  The    (Dyer),   33 

Fletcher,  J.,  357-58.  397  [See 
also   under   Beaumont] 

Foote.  S.,  364 

Fortunes  of  Xigel  (Scott),  89 

Four  Ages  of  Poetry  (Peacock), 
273-76 

Friar  of  Orders  Orey,  383 

Gamester,  The  (Moore),  19.  179 

Garrlck,  D.,  172,  175,  179-80, 
183 

Gay,  J.,  216 

George  Barnwell  (Llllo),  175-76, 
181 

Georgics    (Virgil).   33.  268 

Gertrude  of  Wyoming  (Camp- 
bell).  274.   375 

Oerusalcmmc  Liberata  (Tasso), 
299 

Gessner,   395 

Gibbon,  E.,  301.  322 

Glfford.    W..    348 

GU  Bias    (LeBage),   172 

Godwin.   W..  289 

Goethe.   6,    19.   275.   383 

Golden  Grove,  The  (Taylor),  103 

Goldsmith.  O..  33.  202.  351.  355 

Gondibert   (Davenant).   385 

Goody  Two-Shoes,  129 

Grainger,    J.,    258 


406 


INDEX  TO  AUTHOKS  AND  TITLES 


Gray,  T.,  8,  231,  235,  261,  267, 
272,  317,  355,  399 

Qrecian  Daughter,  The  (Mur- 
phy), 179 

Orongar  Hill  (Dyer),  264 

Ouy  Mannering  (Scott),  245-46, 
249 

Hamlet,  133,  139,  145,  147-55, 
156-57,  174-75,  177-78,  188, 
201-07,  230,  248-49,  316,  318, 
334,  343,  349,  365,  384 

Harry  Oill   (Wordsworth),  117 

Hayley,  W.,  355 

Heart  of  Midlothian  (Scott), 
245 

Hebrew   Melodies    (Byron),    317 

Henry  IV,  148,  189,  218-20,  394 

Henry  V,  365 

Henry  VIII,  123,  365 

HeracUtus,    340 

Hercules  Furens  (Euripides), 
370 

Hermit  of  Warkworth,   The,  23 

Herodotus,  283 

Hervey,    J.,    395 

Hesiod,  334 

Hill,   A„    179 

History  of  England  (Hume),  371 

Hobbes,  T.,  385-86 

Home,  J.,   181,  355 

Homer,  141,  223,  261,  267,  270, 
284,  286,  291,  298,  307,  312- 
13,  321,  343.  347,  354,  369-70, 
380,  382,  388,  392,  396,  399 

Hooker,  R.,  121 

Hoole,  J.,  348 

Horace,  33,  40,  98,  253,  263, 
293    307 

Hughes,  J.,  266,  371-72,   374-75 

Human  Life    (RoRcrs),   351 

Hume,   D.,   301,  322,   371 

Hunt,  J.,   274 

Hunt,  L.,  160-61,  164,  165-72, 
307,   356-57 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity  (Milton), 
317 

Idiot   Boy,    The    (Wordsworth), 

26-30,  117,  264 
Jliad,   236.    312,    343,    348,    350, 

369,  382 
Jl  Penseroso    (Milton),   33,   195, 

313,  382 
Imagination  and  Fancy  (Hunt), 

377 
Inchbald,  Mrs.,  241-42 
Inconstant,      The      (Farquhar), 

195 
Inferno   (Dante),  296,  384 


Intimations     of    Immortality 

(Wordsworth),  338 
Invariable  Principles   of  Poetry 

(Bowles),  251-73 
Ion    (Plato),    292,    305 
IpMginie   (Racine),   347 
Isabella   (Keats),  382 
Ivanhoe   (Scott),  241,  319 

Jack  the   Oiant'Killer,  129 

Jebb,    R.    C,    237 

Jeffrey,  F.,   49 

Johnson,  S.,  22-23,  92,  143,  161, 

203,  258,  272,  349,  355 
Jonson,    B.,    177,    357-58,    366, 

379 
Joseph  Andreics    (Fielding),   91 
Jowett,   B.,   223 
Julius  CoBsar,  151,  233,  248,  263, 

365,    385 
Justice    (Burn),   359 
Juvenal,    33,    308,    318 

Kant,    274 

Kean,  E.,  207 

Keats,  J.,  160-72,  309,  375,  382 

Kemble,   J.  P.,   182,  207 

Kenilworth  (Scott),  319 

King  John,   151,   248,   365 

King  Lear,  36,  41,  101,  133, 
144,  147,  151,  180,  182-83, 
198,  202,  207,  225-26,  229, 
243-45,  287-88,  343.  348,  365, 
370,  381,  383-84,  390 

Knight,    W.,    26 

Kotzebue,  6,  146 

Lady  of  the  Lake  (Scott),  54-67 

Laing,    D.,    380 

Lalla  Rookh  (Moore),  274 

L' Allegro    (Milton),   33.   53,   313 

Lamb,   C,   40.   217.  359-62 

L' Amour  Midccin  (Moli&re), 
352 

Laodamia     (Wordsworth),    329 

Last  of  the  Flock,  The  (Words- 
worth), 124 

L'Avare   (Moli^re),   366 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel 
(Scott),  54,  348 

Lectures  on  the  English  Poets 
(HazUtt),  221 

Legend  of  Montrose  (Scott),  94 

Le  Sage,  A.   R.,  91,  172 

^'Estrange,    R.,    121 

Letters  to  a  Young  Man  (De 
Qulncey),    339 

Letters  to  Lord  Byron  (Bowles) » 
252 

Liberal,  The,  274 


INDEX  TO  AUTHOKS  AND  TITLES       407 


Life  of  Byron  (Moore),  346 
Llllo,  O.,   175-76,   217,   228,  289 
Limherham    (Dryden),   358 
Lino   on    Hit  Mother's   Picture 

(Cowper),  317 
Literary    Remains     (Coleridge), 

133 
Little   Red   Riding-Hood,   129 
Lives   of    the  Poets    (Jobnson), 

355 
Livy,  283,  293 
Locke,  J.,  301 

London  Magazine,  189,  193,  323 
London   Merchant,   The    (LlUo), 

175-76,  181 
London   Review,   310 
Lounsbury,  T.    R.,   138 
Love  for  Love   (Congreve),  196 

358 
Love  in   a  Wood    (Wycherley), 

197 
Love's  Cruelty  (Shirley),  358 
Love's  Labour's  Lost,  390 
Loves  of  the  Plants    (Darwin), 

63 
Love  Bong  in  the  Modern  Taste 

(Swift),  59 
Lucan,  286.  299,  334 
Lucretius,  33.  269,  293.  298,  322 
Lusiad    (Camoens),    299 
Lycidas  (Milton),  382 
Lyrical  Ballads,  1,  26,  67,  102, 

105-06 

Macbeth,  123,  150,  152,  155-59, 
179,  181-82,  185,  187.  207-17, 
232,  246,  294,  301,  316,  318, 
323-28,  343,  348,  865,  870, 
382-83,  385,   390 

Macbiavelli,    290 

Mad  Mother,  The  (Words- 
worth). 114 

Maid  and  the  Magpie,  The,  241 

Malham  Cove  (Wordsworth), 
338 

Manciplei's  Tale   (Chaucer),  886 

Manfred    (Byron),   321 

Manoeuvring    (Edgeworth).    314 

Man  of  Mode,  The  (Etberedge), 
195 

Mansfield  Park  (Austen).  366 

Mariamne  (Fenton),  266,  389 

Marlowe,  C.  173 

Marmion  (Scott),  54 

Marshall,    129 

Martyr  of  Antioch,  The  (Mil- 
man).  317 

Mason.  W..  33,  355 

Massinger.   P.,   357 

Matbias,  T.  J.,  848 


Maud   (Tennyson),  32 

Measure  for  Measure,  856 

Medea   (Euripides),  258 

Meditations    (Hervey),  395 

Medwin,   T.,    247 

Merchant  of  Venice,  147,  229, 
365    384 

M6rope  (Voltaire),  139 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  357 

Metamorphoses  (Ovid),  291,  345 

Metastaslo.    147 

Michael  (Wordsworth),  114,  117 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  147, 
151,  223,  225,  370,  390,  392 

Mill,  J.  S.,  239 

Milman,  H.  H,.  317 

Milton,  J.,  33,  37,  40,  42-43,  53, 
64,  67,  101,  125,  174,  187, 
195,  234,  265.  267-68.  270-73, 
282,  290,  297-99.  301.  304, 
313,  317,  321,  331,  341,  343, 
347,  350,  355,  370,  373,  382- 
83,   389,   392,   396.  399 

Minstrel,  The  (Beattie).  33.  375 

Modern  Painters    (Ruskin),   322 

Molierc,   222.   352,   366 

Monastery,    Th«    (Scott),    89-90 

Monk's  Tale   (Chaucer),  885 

Monti,  267 

Moore,    E.,    19,    179,    228 

Moore,  T.,  274 

More.    II.,    115 

Morgann,  M.,  219 

MoBchus,    290 

Mother,   The    (Wordsworth).   27 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  146- 
47.  305 

Murder  as  One  of  the  Fine  Arts 
(De  Quincey),  324 

Murphy,  A.,  179 

Murray,  G.,  258 

Muses'  Elysium   (Drayton),  802 

Nature  and  Art  (Incbbald),  241- 

42 
Newdigate,   R.,  351 
Newgate   Calendar.   242 
New    Monthlu    Magazine,    197 
Newton.    I.,   343 

Nightingale,  The  (Coleridge),  28 
Night     Thoughts     (Young),     33, 

317 
Nonnus.    299 
Northangcr      Abbey       (Ansten), 

366 
North  BHtish  Review,  339 
Nymphidia   (Drayton),   392 

Observations  on  the  Poirif 
Queen  (Warton),  368-71 


408        INDEX  TO  AUTHORS  AND  TITLES 


Ode   on   the  Death   of  Moriaon 

(Jonson),    379 
Ode  to  Fear   (Collins),  229 
Ode  to  Solitude  (Grainger),  258 
Ode  upon  Winter  (Cotton),  44 
Odyssey,  238,   347,   369 
(Edipus  Tyrannus,  287 
Old    Baf;helor,    The    (Congreve), 

358,  362 
Old  Mortality   (Scott),  319 
Old  Robin  Gray,  316 
Ollier's  Literary  Miscellany,  273 
Omniana   (Southey),  102 
Oppian,   312 
Orator  (Cicero),  317 
Orlando  Furioso  (Ariosto),  223, 

299,   304,  386-87,  390 
Orlando   Innamorato    (Boiardo), 

382 
Ossian,  395 
Othello,  133,  147,  151,  173,  176, 

181,  184,  189-90,  207,  226-27, 

247-48,    316,    318,    343,    348, 

365 
Otway,  T.,  101,  179,  189,  267 
Ovid,  32,  171,  253,  291,  293, 

344,  356 

Pacuvius,   293 

Paltock,  R.,  384 

Paradise    (Dante),    280,    296-97 

Paradise  Lost,  37,  40,  42-43, 
174,  234,  265,  297-98,  304, 
306,  341,  343,  355,  370,  383, 
389-90 

Parnell,  T.,  346 

Parsons,   W.,  190 

Peacock,  T.   L.,  273-76 

Percy,    T.,    23,    373,    383 

Peregrine  Pickle   (Smollett),   82 

Peter  Wilkins    (Paltock),   384 

Petrarch,  267,  296,  301,  399 

Petronlus,   110 

Peveril  of  the  Peak  (Scott),  314 

Pharaalia    (Lucan),  334 

Philips,   J.,   270 

Philoctetes    (Sophocles).  237 

Picture,  The   (Massinger),  357 

Piera  Plowman,  129 

Pilgrim's  Progress,  The  (Ban- 
yan), 237,   395 

Pindaric  Ode   (Jonson),   177 

Plain  Speaker,  The  (Hazlitt), 
240 

Plato,  110,  223,  272,  282,  292, 
294-95,   297,   305 

Pleasures  of  Hope  (Campbell), 
265,   318 

Plutarch,  283 

Polymetis    (Spence),   373 


Pope,  A.,  32,  46.  64,  142.  161, 
168,  229,  251-54.  260.  266-73, 
313,  330-31,  335,  344,  346, 
348-49,  351,  366,  387,  392, 
397 

Popular  Fallacies    (Lamb),    197 

Prelude,  The   (Wordsworth).  33 

Pride  and  Prejudice  (Austen), 
85 

Principia    (Newton),    343 

Progress  of  Poesy,  The  (Gray), 
235 

Prometheus  (^Eschylus),  343 

Propertius,   253 

Prothalamion  (Spenser),  372 

Provoked  Wife,  The  (Van- 
brugh),  358 

Purgatory   (Dante),  296 

Pursuits  of  Literature  (Ma- 
tbias),   348 

Pythagoras,    295 

Quarterly  Review,  79,  160,  165 
Queen   of   Corinth,    The    (Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher),  383 
Quentin  Durward  (Scott),  241 
Quintus  Smyrnffius,  299 

Racine,  245,  250-51,  267,  347 
Raleigh,  W.,  398-99 
Rape  of  Lucrece,  The.  133.  396 
Rape  of  the  Lock,  The   (Pope), 

252,  254.  387.  390 
Recluse,  The   (Wordsworth),  33 
Reflector,  The,   172 
Rehearsal,    The    (Buckingham), 

84,  92 
Reliques    (Percy),   373.  383 
Remarka      on      Paradise      Lost 

(Richardson).  399 
Remorse    (Coleridge).    131 
Republic,  The  (Plato).  223.  295 
Resolution      and      Independence 

(Wordsworth),  37,  39 
Revolt  of  Islam,  The   (Shelley), 

375 
Reynolds,   J.,   24,  315 
Rhyming    Dictionary    (Walker), 

376 
Richard   III,   180,    181,    215-16, 

316.  318,  385 
Richardson.  J.,  399 
Richardson.   S.,    19.   173,   238-39 
Rivals,  The   (Sheridan),  366 
Robinson   Crusoe    (Defoe),    237- 

38 
Rob  Roy  (Scott),  94 
Roderick  (Southey).  316 
Rogers,   S.,   271,  350 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS  AND  TITLES       409 


Romeo  and  Juliet,  42,  118,  144, 

151,   173.   316,  390,   392 
Roscuid    (Churchill),  161 
Rousseau,  297,  301,  322 
Rowe,   N..   179.   267 
Ruskin,   J.,  322 
Ruth   (Wordsworth),  114 
Rymer,   T.,  349-50 

Sailor's  Mother,  The  (Words- 
worth), 129,  130-31 

Bardanapalus   (Byron),  319 

Batyricon    (Petronlus),  110 

Schiller,  6 

Schlegel,  133,  137,  140,  142, 
144,    149,    155.   267 

School  for  Scandal,  The  (Sheri- 
dan), 366 

Schoolmiatreaa,  The  (Shen- 
stone),  33.  375.  399 

Scott,  W.,  32,  54-67,  240-51, 
267,  274,  314,  319,  321,  348, 
369,  375 

Seasons,  The  (Thomson),  32, 
313 

Sense  and  Scnsibilitj/  (Austen), 
85.  366 

Sentimental  Journey  (Sterne), 
129 

Shaftesbury,  Lord.  46 

Shakespeare,  19,  36,  41-42,  64, 
90,  101,  118,  123.  127.  133- 
59,  172-93.  197-98,  201-20, 
223,  225,  229.  239-51,  263, 
267,  271-73.  282,  287,  297, 
301,  312,  316,  318,  321,  323- 
28,  331,  334,  340,  343,  347- 
49,  356-57.  364-65,  370,  381- 
85,  387,  390,  392,  396,  898- 
99 

Shelley,  P.  B.,  351,  375,  388, 
400 

Shenstone,  W..  83.  375.  399 

Sheridan,   R.   B.,  269.  306 

Shipwreck,  The  (Falconer),  256, 
264 

Shirley.  J.,  358 

Short  View  of  Tragedy  (Rymer), 
350 

Slddons,  Mrs..  179,  188,  211 

Sidney,  A.,  121 

Sidney,  P.,  274.  279.  282 

Siege  of  Damascus,  The 
(Hughes),   266 

Simon  Lcc   (Wordsworth),  129 

Sir  Eger,  Sir  Oraham,  and  Sir 
Oray-Stccl,   380 

Sky'Prospect  from  the  Plain  of 
France  (Wordsworth),  330 

Smart,   C,   128 


Smith,  A.,  27,  96 

Smith,  H.,  314 

Smollett,  T.,  82,  91 

Song  by  a  Person  of  Quality 
(Swift),  59 

Sonnet  on  His  Blindness  (Mil- 
ton), 317 

Sonnets    (Shakespeare),    179-80 

Sonnets    (Wordsworth),  329 

Sophocles,  133,  141,  237,  287, 
291 

Sorrows  of  fVerter  (Goethe), 
275 

Soul  of  Man,  On  the  (Davies), 
111 

Southerne,  T.,   179,  267 

Southey.  R.,  32»  03-64,  102, 
260,   274,   307,   316,    321,    360 

Spanish  Friar,  The  (Dryden), 
358 

Specimens  of  Early  English  Ro- 
mances (Ellis),  380 

Specimens  of  Dramatic  Poetry 
(Lamb),  217 

Specimens  of  the  British  Poets 
(Campbell),  251 

Spectator,  The,  23 

Spence,   J..   373-74 

Spenser,  E.,  99,  167,  199-200, 
234,  286.  297,  299,  307,  321, 
331,  368-77.  379,  384,  386, 
392.    396.    398-99 

Spinoza,  260 

Splendid  Shilling,  The  (Phil- 
ips). 270 

Spondanus,   270 

Squire's   Talc    (Chaucer),   880 

Stael.   Mme.  de,  207 

Statins,    299 

Sterne.  L.,  129.  366 

Stoll,  E.  E..  219 

Story  of  Rimini,  The  (Hunt), 
166 

Sublime  and  the  Beautiful,  Our 
Ideas  of  (Burke),  228 

Suckling,   J..   392 

Swift,  J.,  46,  59,   272 

Tail's   Magazine,  328 
Tale  of  a  Tub   (Swift).  46 
Tales  of  Fashionable  Life  (E^dge- 

worth),  314 
Talcs   of  My  Landlord    (Scott), 

^» 
Talcs  of  the  nail  (Crabbe>.  31^ 

Tamburlainc   (Marlowe).  173 

Tamer   Tamed,   The    (Fletcher), 

358 

Tarn  O'  Shantcr  (Burns).  272 

Task,  The   (Cowper),  28,  83 


410        INDEX  TO  AUTHORS  AND  TITLES 


Tasso,  267,  286,  297,  299,  306- 

07,  369-70,  374-75 
Tate,  N.,  180,  183 
Taylor,    J.,    43,    103,    110,    121, 

274 
Tavlor,  W.,  35,  102 
Telemachus  (F6nelon),  359,  395 
Tempest,  The,  90,  151,  186,  198, 

384-85,   387,  390 
Temple,  W.,  371 
Tennyson,  A.,  32 
Thalaba  (Southey),  316.  300 
Theocritus,   33,   290,   292,   396 
Theoria  Sacra    (Burnet),   110 
Thomson,   J.,   32,   272,   313,   375 
Thorn,   The    (Wordsworth),    27, 

117-18,   124 
Thoughts  on  Poetry  (Mill),  239 
Tibullus,   253,  389 
Tlmaeus,   295 

Timon  of  Athens,  198,  239,  385 
To   Mary    (Cowper),   269 
Tom  HickathHft,  129 
Tom  Jones  (Fielding),  82,  91 
Treatise   on   the  Bathos    (Pope- 
Swift),  46 
Triumphs   of  Temper    (Hayley), 

355 
Troilus   and   Cressida,  347,    390 
Twa  Dogs   (Burns),  33 
Twelfth   Night,   151-52,    190-93, 

390-91 
Tyrannic  Love  (Dryden),  347 

Vanbrugh,   J.,  358 

Varro,   293 

Venice  Preserved  (Otway),  101, 

179,  189 
Venus  and  Adonis,  133,  396 
Via  Pads   (Taylor),  103 
Vindication   of  Natural  Society 

(Burke),  53 


Virgil,  33,  36,  38.  108.  141,  260, 
267-68,    293,    297-98,    307-08, 
313,  319,  321,  347 
Virtue  Betrayed    (Banks),   175 
Vita  Nuova   (Dante),  296 
Volpone   (Jonson),  358 
Voltaire,  138-39.  267,  300-01 
Voyage  Round  the  World  (Dam- 
pier),  335 

Walker,  J.,  376 

Warner,  W.,  381 

Warton,  J.,  236,  272 

Warton,  T.,  368-71,  375-76 

Waverley   (Scott),  98 

Way  of  the  World,  The  (Con- 
greve),    195-96 

Webb,   C,    168 

\N'hately,    R.,   46 

Whole  Duty  of  Man,  The,  204 

Wieland,  171 

Wilson,  J.,  26 

Windsor  Forest  (Pope),  254 

Winter's  Tale.  127.  151 

Wisdom  of  the  Ancients  (Ba- 
con), 371 

Wither,  G.,  199 

Worcester,  Marquis  of,  401 

Wordsworth,  W.,  67-79,  102-07, 
112-32,  167-68.  258.  260,  264, 
274-75,  321,  328-39,  344,  348, 
375 

Written  in  March  (Words- 
worth), 336 

Wycherley,  W.,  195-97,  358-60 

Young,  B.,  33,  267,  317,  330, 
338 

Zoilus,  137 


THE  MODERN 
STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

Each  volume  edited  with  an  introduction  by  a  leading 

American  authority 

WILL  D.  HOWE,  General  Editor 

This  series  is  composed  of  such  works  as  are  conspicuous  in  the 
province  of  literature  for  their  enduring  influence.  Every  volume 
is  recognized  as  essential  to  a  liberal  education  and  will  tend  to  in- 
fuse a  love  for  true  literature  and  an  appreciation  of  the  qualities 
which  cause  it  to  endure. 


A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD  AND 

MERRIMAC  RIVERS 

By  Henry  David  Thoreau 

With  an  Introduction  by 
ODELL  SHEPARD 

Professor  o(  English  at  Trinity  College 

"...  Here  was  a  man  who  stood  with  his  head  in  the  clcuds, 
perhaps,  but  with  his  feet  firmly  planted  on  rubble  and  grit.  He 
was  true  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home.  Thoreau's 
eminently  practical  thought  was  really  concerned,  in  the  last  anal- 
ysis with  definite  human  problems.  The  major  question  how  to  live 
was  at  the  end  of  all  his  vistas." 

EMERSON'S  ESSAYS 

Selected  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction,  by 
ARTHUR  HOBSON  QUINN 

Professor  of  English  and  Dean  of  the  College  University  of 
Pennsylvania 

"  Among  the  shifting  values  in  our  literarj'  historj',  Emerson  stands 
secure.  \s  a  people  we  arc  rather  prone  to  imdcrestimnle  our  native 
writers  in  relation  to  English  and  continental  authors,  but  oven 
among  those  who  have  been  content  to  treat  our  literature  as  a  by- 
product of  British  letters,  Emerson's  significance  has  become  only 
more  apparent  with  time." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

THE  ESSAYS  OF 
ADDISON  AND  STEELE 

Selected  and  edited  by 
WILL  D.  HOWE 

Professor  of  English  at  Indiana  University 

With  the  writings  of  these  two  remarkable  essayists  modem  prose 
began.  It  is  not  merely  that  their  style  even  to-day,  after  two  cen- 
turies, commands  attention,  it  is  equally  noteworthy  that  these 
men  were  among  the  first  to  show  the  possibilities  of  our  language 
in  developing  a  reading  public. 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  AND 
JONATHAN  EDWARDS 

With  an  Introduction  by 
CARL  VAN  DOREN 

Franklin  and  Ikiwards  often  sharply  contrasted  in  thought  are, 
however,  in  the  main,  complimentary  to  each  other.  In  religion, 
Franklin  was  the  utilitarian,  Edwards  the  mystic.  Franklin  was 
more  interested  in  practical  morality  than  in  revelation;  Edwards 
sought  a  spiritual  exaltation  in  religious  ecstasy.  In  science  Frank- 
lin was  the  practical  experimenter,  Edwards  the  detached  observer, 
the  theoretical  investigator  of  causes. 

THE 
HEART  OF  MIDLOTHIAN  "^ 

By  Sir  Walter  Scott 

.    ^,  With  an  Introduction  by 

'  WILLIAM  P.  TRENT 

Professor  of  English  at  Columbia  University 

Universally  admitted  one  of  the  world's  greatest  story-tellers, 
Scott  himself  considered  "The  Heart  of  Midlothian"  his  master- 
piece, and  it  has  been  accepted  as  such  by  most  of  his  admirers. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

THE   ORDEAL  OF 

RICHARD  FEVERIEL 

By  George  Meredith 

With  an  Introduction  by 
FRANK  W.  CHANDLER 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  Cincinnati 

"The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,"  published  in  1859,  was  Mere- 
dith's first  modem  norel  and  probably  his  best.  Certainly  it  was, 
and  has  remained,  the  most  generally  popular  of  all  this  author's 
books  and  among  the  works  of  its  type  it  stands  pre-eminent.  The 
story  embodies  in  the  most  beautiful  form  the  idea  that  in  life  the 
whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth  is  best. 

MEREDITH'S 
ESSAY  ON  COMEDY 

With  an  Introduction,  Notes,  and  Biographical  Sketch  by 
LANE  COOPER 

Professor  of  English  at  Cornell  University 

"Good  comedies,"  Meredith  tells  us,  "are  such  rare  productions 
that,  notwithstanding  the  wealth  of  our  literature  in  the  comic 
element,  it  would  not  occupy  us  long  to  run  over  the  English  list." 

The  "Essay  on  Comedy"  is  in  a  peculiarly  intimate  way  the  ex- 
position of  Meredith's  attitude  toward  life  and  art.  It  helps  us  to 
understand  more  adequately  the  subtle  delicacies  of  hb  novels. 

CRITICAL  ESSAYS  OF  THE 
NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

Selected  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction,  by 
RAYMOND  M.  ALDEN 

Professor  of  English  at  Leland  Stanfor<)  L'Diversily 

The  essays  in  this  volume  include  thase  of  Wordsworth,  Cople.<«ton, 
Jeffrey,  Scott,  Coleridge,  Lockhart.  Lamb,  HazHtt,  Byron,  Shelley, 
Newman,  DeQuincey,  Macaulay,  Wilson,  and  Hunt. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

ENGLISH  POETS  OF  THE 
EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

Selected  and  Edited  by 
ERNEST  BERNBAUM 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  IHinois 

The  great  age  of  the  eighteenth  century  is,  more  than  any  other, 
perhaps,  mirrored  in  its  poetry,  and  this  anthology  reveals  its  man- 
ners and  ideals. 

While  the  text  of  the  various  poems  is  authentic,  it  is  not  bur- 
dened with  scholastic  editing  and  marginal  comment.  The  collec- 
tion and  its  form  is  one  which  satisBes  in  an  unusual  way  the  in- 
terest of  the  general  reader  as  well  as  that  of  the  specialist. 

PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS 
By  John  Bunyan 

With  an  Introduction  and  Notes  by 
DR.  S.  M.  CROTHERS 

This  book  is  one  of  the  most  vivid  and  entertaining  in  the  English 
language,  one  that  has  been  read  more  than  any  other  in  our  lan- 
guage, except  the  Bible. 

PRIDE  AND  PREJUDICE 
By  Jane  Austen 

With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

To  have  this  masterpiece  of  realistic  literature  introduced  by  so 
eminent  a  critic  as  William  Dean  Howells  is,  in  itself,  an  event  in 
the  literary  world.  We  cannot  better  comment  upon  the  edition 
than  by  quoting  from  Mr.  Howells's  introduction: 

He  says:  "When  I  came  to  read  the  book  the  tenth  or  fifteenth 
time  for  the  purposes  of  this  introduction,  I  found  it  as  fresh  as  when 
I  read  it  first  in  1889,  after  long  shying  off  from  it." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

NINETEENTH  CENTURY 
LETTERS 

Selected  and  Edited  by 
BYRON  JOHNSON  REES 

Professor  of  English  at  Williams  College 

Contains  letters  from  William  Blake,  William  Wordsworth, 
Sydney  Smith,  Robert  Southey,  Charles  Lamb,  Washington  Irving, 
Benjamin  Robert  Haydon,  John  Keats,  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle,  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson,  John  Sterling,  Abraham  Lincoln,  William  Make- 
peace Thackeray,  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  Matthew  Arnold, 
Thomas  Henry  Huxley,  George  Meredith,  "Lewis  Carroll,"  Phillips 
Brooks,  Sidney  Lanier,  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

PAST  AND  PRESENT 

By  Thomas  Carlyle 

With  an  Introduction  by 
EDWIN  W.  MIMS 

Proteasor  of  English  at  Vanderbilt  University 

"Past  and  Present,"  written  in  1843,  when  the  industrial  revolu- 
tions had  just  taken  place  in  England  and  when  democracy  and 
freedom  were  the  watchwords  of  liberals  and  progressives,  reads  like 
a  contemporary  volume  on  industrial  and  social  problems. 

BOSWELL'S 
LIFE  OF  JOHNSON 

Abridged  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes,  by 
CHARLES  G.  OSGOOD 

Professor  of  English  at  Princeton  University 

Boswell  has  created  one  of  the  great  masterpieces  of  the  world. 
Seldom  has  an  abridgment  been  made  with  as  great  skill  in  omit- 
ting nothing  vital  and  keeping  proper  proportions  as  this  edition  by 
Professor  Osgood. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 


BACON'S  ESSAYS 

Selected,  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes,  by 
MARY  AUGUSTA  SCOTT 

Late  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Smith  G}llege 

These  essays,  the  distilled  wisdom  of  a  great  observer  upon  the 
affairs  of  common  life,  are  of  endless  interest  and  profit.  The  more 
one  reads  them  the  more  remarkable  seem  their  compactness  and 
their  vitality. 

ADAM  BEDE 
By  George  Eliot 

With  an  Introduction  by 
LAURA  J.  WYLIE 

Professor  of  English  at  Vassar  College 

With  the  publication  of  "Adam  Bede"  in  1859,  it  was  evident 
both  to  England  and  America  that  a  great  novelist  had  appeared. 
"Adam  Bede"  is  the  most  natural  of  George  Eliot's  books,  simple 
in  problem,  direct  in  action,  with  the  freshness  and  strength  of  the 
Derbyshire  landscape  and  character  and  speech  in  its  pages. 


THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK 
By  Robert  Browning 

With  an  Introduction  by 
FREDERICK  MORGAN  PADELFORD 

Professor  of  English  at  Washington  University 

"  'The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  "  says  Dr.  Padelford  in  his  introduc- 
tion, "is  Browning's  supreme  literary  achievement.  It  was  written 
after  the  poet  had  attained  complete  mastery  of  his  very  individual 
style;  it  absorbed  his  creative  activity  for  a  prolonged  period;  and  it 
issued  with  the  stamp  of  his  characteristic  genius  on  every  page." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON'S 

ESSAYS 

With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS 

Professor  of  English  at  Yale  University 

This  volume  includes  not  only  essays  in  formal  literary  criticism, 
but  also  of  personal  monologue  and  gossip,  as  well  as  philosophical 
essays  on  the  greatest  themes  that  can  occupy  the  mind  of  man.  All 
reveal  the  complex,  whimsical,  humorous,  romantic,  imaginative, 
puritanical  personality  now  known  everywhere  by  the  formula 
R.  L.  S. 

PENDENNIS 

By  Thackeray 

With  an  Introduction  by 
ROBERT  MORSS  LOVETT 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  Chicago 

"Pendennis"  stands  as  a  great  representative  of  biographical 
fiction  and  reflects  more  of  the  details  of  Thackeray's  life  than  all 
his  other  writings.  Of  its  kind  there  is  probably  no  more  interesting 
book  in  our  literature. 

THE 

RETURN  OF  THE  NATIVE 

By  Thomas  Hardy 

With  an  Introduction  and  Notes  by 
JOHN  W.  CUNLIFFE 

Professor  of  English  at  Columbia  University 

"The  Return  of  the  Native"  is  probably  Thomas  Hardy's  great 
tragic  masterpiece.  It  carries  to  the  highest  perfection  the  rare 
genius  of  the  finished  writer.  It  presents  in  the  most  remarkable 
way  Hardy's  interpretation  of  nature  in  which  there  is  a  perfect 
unison  between  the  physical  world  and  the  human  character. 


TEE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

RUSKIN'S 
SELECTIONS  AND  ESSAYS 

With  an  Introduction  by 
FREDERICK  WILLIAM  ROE 

Assistant  Professor  of  English  at  University  of  Wisconsin 

"Ruskin,"  said  John  Stuart  Mill,  "was  one  of  the  few  men  in 
Europe  who  seemed  to  draw  what  he  said  from  a  source  within  him- 
self." Carlyle  delighted  in  the  "fierce  lightning  bolts"  that  Ruskin 
was  "copiously  and  desperately  pouring  into  the  black  world  of 
anarchy  all  around  him." 

The  present  volume,  by  its  wide  selection  from  Ruskin's  writings, 
affords  an  unusual  insight  into  this  remarkable  man's  interests  and 
character. 

THE  SCARLET  LETTER 
By  Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

With  an  Introduction  by 
STUART  P.  SHERMAN 

Professor  of  English  at  University  of  Illinois 

"  'The  Scarlet  Letter'  appears  to  be  as  safe  from  competitors 
as  'Pilgrim's  Progress'  or  'Robinson  Crusoe.'  It  is  recognized  as 
the  classical  treatment  of  its  particular  theme.  Its  symbols  and 
scenes  of  guilt  and  penitence — the  red  letter  on  the  breast  of  Hester 
Prynne,  Arthur  Dimmesdale  on  the  scaffold — have  fixed  themselves 
in  the  memory  of  men  like  the  figure  of  Crusoe  bending  over  the 
footprints  in  the  sand,  and  have  become  a  part  of  the  common  stock 
of  images  like  Christian  facing  the  lions  in  the  way. 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


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